Welcome To My Little Corner Of The Asylum

Prompt List

Wrong Choice

Uncertain

"Of Course It's You."

Still Remember

"Wait . . ."

Fatal Flaw

Gravity

Unidentifiable

Lie

Doesn't Feel Like Home

What You Deserve

Hollow

Skeleton in the Closet

"This Has Nothing to Do with You."

In Limbo

Not Anymore

Tunnel Vision

Hypocrite

Ruined

A Losing Bet

"You Promised."

Illusion of Choice

Staying Silent

Lonely in a Crowd

On Your Knees

Getting Cold

Worth It

Eleventh Hour

Picking Up the Pieces

Last Chance

Close the Door

Alternate Prompts:

Do You?

This is Your Home Now

Old Scars

Your Ghost Wears My Sins

He could hear you, of course. Super-hearing or not, Ben always knew the difference between silence and absence. You were in there, alright. Breathing slow. Still. Ignoring him like it was a full-time job. He didn’t even need to press his ear to the door. He could hear your heartbeat if he really focused. That steady, annoyed rhythm. Still close – but not coming any closer.

So he knocked again. Slower this time.

Still nothing.

He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and exhaled. “Alright, I know you in there.”

No response again. Ben could hear the music, though.

Not loud. Not enough to be obnoxious. Just enough to make the old brownstone buzz faintly through the concrete. A record. Vinyl – not fucking digital. He could tell by the soft static and occasional warble.

It was some grunge shit. Female vocals, probably late 90s. Not his thing, but it fit. A little sad. A little angry. Just like you.

“I can hear you breathing, sweetheart. Don’t play dumb.”

Fuckin’ nothing.

Ben dragged a hand down his face, then crossed his arms. “C’mon, you’re really gonna make me talk through the door like a fuckin’ sitcom neighbor? You know I hate that shit.”

Still no response. Not even a bratty fucking comment. That stung more than he wanted to admit.

His knuckles softly tapped the wood once more. “You know, if you open the door, you can punch me again or at least slam it in my face. Tell you what, sweetheart – I’ll let you kick me in the crown jewels once. How’s that, huh? Hell, might even like it if it’s you, so don’t be surprised if I moan instead of flinch.”

A beat passed, and then finally:

“You’re not coming in,” you said, voice dry as paper.

“Figured,” he muttered and dropped down on the steps just outside your door. His back leaned against the frame and brick wall, one knee up, the other stretched across the concrete like he had all goddamn night. “Place still smells like cheap paint and lavender. But hey, at least it got character… and possibly black mold. Had to pick the shittiest apartment in New York, didn’t you?”

You still didn’t say anything, but he heard the quiet creak of the floorboards inside and your breathing just behind the door, measured and intentional – you were listening.

And sure, on some level, he knew this was fucking stupid. You didn’t want to see him. You made that clear when you told him to fuck off several times by now. But he couldn’t not be here – not after today.

Not after everything.

“Y’know, I liked it better when you yelled at me and threw me ‘round through time,” he said and let his head rest against the wood, shutting his eyes for a second. “Now I knock and don’t even get a ‘go to hell.’ Kinda hurtin’ my feelings, sweetheart.”

“You don’t have feelings,” you bit.

Ben smirked. There you were.

“I’m not here to fight, alright? Just figured if you hate me, I should at least fuckin’ show up for it,” he said and rubbed a thumb over a splinter in the wood.

“You gonna sit there forever?” you snapped. “Go away and leave me alone.”

“Not yet.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“I don’t think so,” Ben replied, a smile curling on his lips. “You haven’t vanished yet, which means you don’t fuckin’ hate me as much as you think you do.”

“Don’t kid yourself. Me staying has nothing to do with you,” you argued. “This is my home. I like it here. I have friends here. If anyone should fucking leave, it’s you.”

“You can’t even remember most of this shit, including that little whine club of yours.”

You scoffed, and Ben suddenly remembered he wasn’t supposed to make you angrier. You were just making it so goddamn hard on him to hold back. And maybe that was your point all along.

“Hey, I can remember most of them again. It’s coming back. I know Annie and Frenchie and Hughie and Butcher–”

“Butcher ain’t your fuckin’ friend,” he cut in sharply.

“Why? ‘Cause he blackmailed me?” you asked. “I told you it wasn’t that fucking serious – and yeah, I remember that, too.”

“I don’t know. Sounds like a good enough reason to me,” he muttered.

“Everything’s a good fucking reason to you.”

And maybe you were right about that one. Because it surely wasn’t the only reason he wanted Butcher dead. The asshole had not only crossed a line by threatening you but also by threatening him with turning you against him.

Mostly, though, he hated to admit that it also may have been a reason he came to see you tonight. Why he couldn’t give you time and leave you fucking alone.

He had to talk to you before they fucking got to you and spewed all their poison about him.

Ben exhaled slowly. “Look, I know you’re mad at me. I get it. If I were you, I woulda done the same fuckin’ thing.”

You snorted a dark chuckle. “If you were me, New York would be leveled and burning right now.”

“Probably.” Ben pursed his lips, head bobbing. “Listen, I know this is about what happened last week–”

“Don’t.” Your voice cut him like a knife – cold, sharp, and warning.

Ben swallowed heavily. “I don’t wanna rehash it, alright? I just figured you need to–… I had to, okay? I had no choice. I had to push harder. You weren’t breaking, and I was runnin’ outta tricks. Outta time.”

“That it?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he assured, even though your question sounded like a trap. He just didn’t know what would activate it yet. “I didn’t mean to–”

“Bullshit,” you snapped. “You did mean to. You meant everything. You don’t get to have a say in my life for over a year, treat me like a shit, corner me in my own fucking apartment, and then beg for forgiveness on my doorstep like it’s some goddamn romantic gesture.”

“Didn’t say it was,” Ben muttered, rubbing his palms on his thighs.

Well, shit. There went his plan.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, alright? You think that was fuckin’ fun for me?”

“Kinda, yeah,” you huffed bitterly.

Ben swallowed, nodding. “You really think I wanted this? Any of it? You know that I–…” He didn’t finish, just bit his lips, but you said it for him anyway.

“You were just like him.”

Ben licked his lips, then smacked them. “I know.”

“You’re supposed to protect me,” you added quietly.

“I know that, too,” he admitted and tilted his head back against the brick wall, staring up at stars through the city haze. “Still remember your face that night. It’s been livin’ rent-free in my goddamn skull ever since. You were scared… of me. I did that. On purpose, sure, but doesn’t mean I don’t hate myself for it.” He rubbed his jaw. The heat of shame burned at the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t have–… I wouldn’t have hurt you. You know that.”

“No, I don’t know that, because I don’t know you,” you argued. “I don’t even know if you’re telling the truth or lying through your fucking teeth right now because you’re still playing some sick game.”

Ben closed his eyes for another moment, exhaling a breath through his nose. “I’m not playin’ a game.”

“I. Don’t. Believe. You,” you said and slowly pressed each word out with purpose.

He swallowed the thick lump in his throat. “What d’you want me to say, huh? Just tell me what it fuckin’ takes. Fine, alright? Maybe it was more than a little pretense that night. Maybe I was a jealous asshole and a little rougher than I intended. There, I said it. Fuckin’ happy now?”

“None of this makes me fucking happy!”

“Makes fuckin’ two of us,” Ben scoffed under his breath and rolled his eyes slightly. He waited till the sting in his chest subsided before continuing, “But you still gotta believe me – I wouldn’t’ve hurt you.”

Silence. Fucking crickets. He didn’t know if that was good or bad.

He banged his forehead softly against the door. “Please open it.”

“No.”

Sure, he could’ve kicked it in a while ago, but he figured he’d probably be making the wrong point. Aside from that, you sure as hell would either freeze him, toss him into some historical catastrophe, or disappear from the face of the Earth.

“You think I’ve been stuck on what you did this past year, but it’s not just that,” you continued. “I’ve been trying to figure out how much of what you became over the last eighty years is real… and how much is just for show.”

Ben huffed a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, not sure ‘bout that one, either,” he muttered quietly. “If you find out, lemme know.”

You didn’t say anything, but the record kept playing. The needle scratched faintly as the song faded to its last few bars. Then, he heard you lifting and flipping it.

Side B – fitting.

Your weight inside moved again, heartbeat getting closer. There was a creak of old wood and the rustling of fabric as you seemed to be sitting down on the floor just on the other side of him. If the door disappeared, he could imagine your knees touching. There were no attempts at footsteps or even the door chain shifting, but at least you hadn’t vanished yet.

You were still here – listening.

Ben’s eyes then drifted to the box next to him, resting a hand on the taped-up lid. “I brought your stuff, by the way. Kept it all. Your shoes, that busted old notebook full of chicken scratch equations, the movie projector you made me, even that shirt that didn’t make sense to me till ’69,” he listed, chuckling softly. “I saw you there. At that concert, y’know?”

“You did?”

“Yep. You were gettin’ high with some college kids. Even followed you,” he added.

“Oh, yeah, those kids were so nice. I think they were a throuple. Not sure, but definitely polyamorous,” you mused behind the door. “I left when the topic of an orgy came up. But they gave me LSD. Was my first time doing it.”

Ben’s mouth opened and closed. “Explains a few things,” he murmured lowly, his eyes swerving back to the box. “You know, I thought about burnin’ all this shit several times over the years.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Because you left. Because he didn’t know if he’d see you again. Because it still smelled like you.

He let out a quiet chuckle. “Don’t know. Just couldn’t do it.”

There was silence again on your side, even the song ended. But another started – same tone with a different flavor of ache.

“You can leave it outside,” you said.

“I’d rather hand it to you, if that’s alright.”

“It’s not.”

“Right.” Ben let out a deep sigh. “Got you something else, too. But it’s a surprise. Gotta open the door first, though. Only got about one more hour left, too.”

“Great, so it comes with a countdown,” you huffed, and Ben imagined you even rolled your eyes with it. “Please tell me it’s not you exploding.”

He snorted, amused. “Nah, not the kinda explosion I’ve planned for you, sweetheart.”

“Ew! Why?”

“C’mon, it was right there. Can’t serve me like that,” he replied, chuckling.

“You’re not making a good case for yourself,” you murmured.

“You used to love it when I made those fuckin’ jokes,” Ben noted, laughing a little as a memory popped into his head. “Once made you laugh so hard you snorted your soda through your fuckin’ nose.”

“That was different.”

“How so?”

“It just was.”

You had always been a fucking challenge. Didn’t matter what he’d tried – making you his lover or his enemy.

“I liked who you were then,” you added after a beat.

Ben was quiet, and for a while, the city filled the space between you – the hum of traffic two streets over, someone slamming a cab door, a dog barking faintly from a second-story window.

“Look, uhm, I don’t know how much of that guy’s still in here, but I think some of him is,” Ben said finally. “Specially ‘round you.”

“Coulda fooled me,” you scoffed sharply. “You don’t get to act like you care now.”

That one hit harder than he expected, but he didn’t defend himself either. What was the fucking point? No matter what he said, you didn’t believe him. You never would again, would you?

“I’ll go, okay?” Ben said then and heard your weight shift behind the door. “I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want. I just need to ask you somethin’ first.”

A beat passed before you responded.

“What?”

Ben took a breath and swallowed. “Back at the office, you said you trained, so how long–, uhm, how long have your powers been back? I mean, did you leave on purpose… that night?”

There was nothing but silence – heavy, cruel, and suffocating – till the lock clicked. The door cracked open a moment later.

And there you fucking were again.

His heart stopped when he saw you. Still on the floor, back leaning against the wall next to the door, drowning in a Blondie tee, damp hair from a shower, bare legs stretched out over the old wooden boards. You looked better than you did in the afternoon. Tired as fuck, but better.

“Hey,” he said softly, like you were a deer in a sunny clearing he didn’t want to scare back into the dark woods.

“Hey,” you parroted with the same softness in your voice.

Ben could see it then – you didn’t hate him anymore. Not like you had. You were pissed and mad and five different flavors of disappointed, but you didn’t want to drown him in a volcano any longer.

You swallowed and averted your gaze to your fumbling fingers in your lap. “I was stuck. Nothing was working, no matter what I tried. But, uhm, I got the freezing thing working again after a few weeks,” you explained slowly. “I didn’t leave on purpose, though. I told you.”

“You told me a lotta things.” He smiled weakly. “Most of ‘em lies.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” you said quietly and kept your eyes focused on the floor in front of you. “Kinda the reason I got scared and panicked. I didn’t know how to tell you. Didn’t know what the future would look like. Not until I figured out it was a loop.”

He leaned his head back against the door. “You always had secrets. I knew that much. You’d look at me sometimes like you knew how everything ended.”

“I guess I did,” you admitted. “On some level.”

Ben swallowed thickly, nodding. “So what was the plan? You were never gonna say anything?”

“No, I would have. I think… I wanted to,” you replied. “Just didn’t know when… or how. I was scared you were gonna–…”

You didn’t finish.

“What? Kill you?”

You shook your head and met his eyes. “No, leave.”

“I wouldn’t have.” A sad smile twitched on his lips. “So you really didn’t wanna leave?”

“No.”

The word was barely audible over the music, but he still would’ve heard it even if someone was standing next to his ear with a jackhammer.

A humorless chuckle escaped him. “You know, I always figured I drove you off that night. Wasn’t exactly subtle.”

“No, you weren’t. You never were,” you said, but it wasn’t mean. There was a faint smile on your face.

“Never did get an answer, though,” he noted, swallowing. “Still waiting, y’know. Still wonderin’.”

You looked at him then for a long moment. “Not sure you deserve an answer now.”

“Me neither.” He smiled a little. “Give it to me anyway?”

But you shook your head and averted your gaze again. “I didn’t mean to fall for you, you know? Didn’t mean to hurt you, either.”

He huffed a small laugh. “Funny how that works, huh?”

“I would’ve said yes. I wanted to,” you said then, taking him by surprise. He hadn’t expected an answer. Not when he asked it now and not when he’d asked it back then.

For a while, he didn’t know what else to say. Didn’t know what to ask that would magically make this all better and fix it. What words were significant enough to bandage a wound this big?

Ben exhaled slowly. “Why haven’t you gone back yet?”

You blinked at him, brow close to reaching your hairline.

“You could, right? You have your powers again. You could go back right to that moment before it all went to shit,” he clarified.

You were quiet for a beat. “I could. Thought about it.”

Ben’s head bobbed thoughtfully. “But you haven’t, right? Otherwise we still wouldn’t be sittin’ here.”

“No, guess not…”

“Why?”

You found his eyes, and he could see the tears gleaming in yours. Then you gave a weak shrug of your shoulders. “‘Cause it wasn’t real.”

His jaw clenched. “Don’t fuckin’ say that. It was. It was real.”

“It was a lie. A fantasy,” you argued softly. It wasn’t cruel – just honest. “I’m not saying my feelings weren’t real. They were. But everything else? It would’ve collapsed. It was inevitable… like entropy. We were drifting from order to chaos. From warmth to cold.”

“You don’t know that,” Ben countered.

“Maybe not,” you admitted and looked at him again. “But it’s not just up to me. Not anymore.”

His brow furrowed. “What d’you mean?”

“It’s your life. You should make the decision,” you told him.

Ben sat with that for a while, let the words sink in, even though he barely understood them.

“You should go.”

“What?” Your brow raised like you hadn’t anticipated that answer.

“You love m–… him, right? So you should be with him,” Ben said, although the answer almost broke him.

You didn’t love him. Probably never would. At least not this version of him, so what was the point of holding on? He could get a redo. Maybe even the life he always wanted.

“It’s not that simple,” you said. “The whole world would change. You would change.”

He snorted bitterly. “Might be for the best,” he muttered. “You’d make sure I wouldn’t cross a line or lose myself along the way like I did without you there.”

“I don’t think you understand the implications of it,” you noted. “You don’t know what happens to you – this you.”

He gave a shrug. “I stop existing, right? Just fade away like Marty’s hand.”

You smiled, but it was a sad one. “Maybe. If I go back and stay, the future might rewrite itself, including you. So, yeah, this you would stop existing and get replaced by a new version of you. But there’s another option,” you explained. “If I go back, it could just start a new timeline. An alternate one. Which means this one would still exist. I’d just be gone from it.”

Ben’s lips twitched, head bobbing. “So either I stop existing, or I’d be here alone forever. That what you’re saying?”

You nodded slowly.

He didn’t love that answer. You happy with some other version of him, while he was stuck in eternal misery, forever missing you. He wasn’t sure if he could do that – give up on you like that. And maybe that was fucking selfish of him. He knew it was.

“You’d save a lot of people. Probably,” you added like you were making a pro and con list. “I ran different scenarios, you know? Like simulations in my head of what could happen. Tried to find the right path that would yield the most benefit.”

Ben cocked an eyebrow. “That what you were doing in the shed?”

“Mostly.” You gave a half-sure nod. “I tried to find out how it works. What theory was true.”

“And?”

You twitched your shoulders. “Inconclusive. Never could figure it out.”

He huffed quietly, shaking his head. “All these theories and you never thought it was a loop?”

A small smile flashed on your lips. “No, I did. It crossed my mind,” you admitted and swallowed. “Was just the one I liked the least. Because it not only meant that I couldn’t change anything but that I was also the cause for everything.”

“And me,” Ben added and met your confused stare. “I sent you back. So I caused it too, right?”

You exhaled musingly. “I guess so. Maybe.”

Ben’s brows drew together. “So who started it? You or me?”

You shrugged again. “I don’t know. My guess is as good as yours.”

“Yeah, but there’s gotta be like… a starting point, right? A first one?” he asked and saw you hold back an amused laugh. “What?”

“It’s a circle,” you said like it would explain everything.

It fucking didn’t.

“Does a circle have a beginning or an end?” you asked in that certain tone of yours he knew all too well – the teacher voice. “The answer you’re looking for is no, by the way.”

“Smartass,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “They didn’t teach all that futuristic shit yet in my school.”

“What, geometry?” You snorted in amused disbelief. “I’m pretty sure they did. You just weren’t paying attention.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He rolled his eyes back. “But there’s gotta be an original version that looked different than all the others, right? Or a version of me that never knew you at all.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Jesus, how much have you been thinking about this?”

“A lot. Yeah,” he admitted and cleared his throat. Smiled even. “So? What’s the working theory, Doc?”

“I don’t know. Probably?”

Ben’s brow wrinkled. “You ever gonna give me an answer tonight that doesn’t sound like it’s comin’ straight outta a Magic 8 Ball?”

You snorted, that little mischievous smirk curling on your lips. “Ask again later.”

“Funny.” He snorted a laugh, but he tried not to be too loud or move too much.

He’d noticed it a while ago – how the tension faded from your muscles, how the smiles kept creeping in. It was like you weren’t even aware you were still supposed to be angry and hurt. You were just doing it subconsciously – talking to him, laughing with him, falling into a pattern with him you’d grown accustomed to over the last few months.

Ben knew better than to point that out and burst it, however. He just enjoyed the bubble. Didn’t want it to end. Didn’t want you to wake up from your trance. Scared you’d realize then that he wasn’t the same guy anymore.

So he said nothing and kept the conversation flowing, hoping you wouldn’t catch on for the rest of both your lives. A man could fucking hope, right?

“Hmm,” he hummed and feigned contemplation. Then he smirked. “So, technically, that means the original timeline could be me being on your little history backstage pass, and you payin’ me a visit, right?”

You snorted. “Unlikely. You were never on that list.”

“Oh, but fuckin’ JFK is on it?”

You laughed loudly at that. “Are you still seriously hung up on that guy? He’s been dead for decades. Most likely because of you.”

“Hey, I had nothin’ to do with that.”

“Legend said you did,” you countered.

“That old prick with that coked-up brain doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talkin’ about,” Ben muttered. “That shit about Normandy wasn’t true either, was it? I mean, you saw, right?”

“Oh, I remember when you made me prove Hughie and I were wrong. Watched you throw a whole-ass tank at like forty Nazis,” you replied wryly.

“Yeah, you’re fuckin’ welcome,” he huffed and only snapped out of his internal rant when he heard your soft giggles.

“How do you even know about my list? I know I never told you about that,” you said then, your brow scrunching into little creases.

“Oh, you sure as hell didn’t, sweetheart.” Ben smirked wide and lazy. “But your so-called friends were real fuckin’ chatty today.”

“Great,” you sighed, then found his eyes. “So what now? Do you want me to go back?”

Ben pursed his lips for a moment. “Can I think about it?” he asked quietly, foot tapping against the concrete below it.

You gave a shrug of your shoulders. “Sure. Time’s not really relevant. Not for us, anyway. Could tell me tomorrow or a hundred years from now. Literally doesn’t matter.”

Ben didn’t respond right away. Just looked at you. “Do you wanna go back?”

He for sure thought you wanted to. He thought there could only ever be one answer, almost rendering the question redundant in the first place. You loved the past version of him. That guy could still give you a future and a life you were worthy of. Why wouldn’t you want that?

But your answer took him by surprise.

“No,” you said and didn’t break his gaze. “I don’t.”

Ben’s brow knitted. “Why?”

“I don’t think there’s a version of us that gets to live the perfect dream life. Where we get everything we ever wanted,” you said. “It’s not how life works. Was just a glitch in the matrix. It was nice while it lasted, though.”

Ben licked his lips, not knowing what he could say to convince you otherwise. “I don’t think that’s true. I think we would’ve been happy,” he said. “I woulda made sure you were.”

You turned your head to look at him. “I was, and you did.”

Ben nodded and bit the insides of his cheeks. “So if you don’t wanna go back, why you offerin’?”

“I ruined your life. Only fair you at least get a say in how I do it this time,” you replied, shrugging.

Ben then met your eyes. “You didn’t ruin shit.”

You lifted an eyebrow in disbelief. “Really? Not even a little?”

He huffed a snort. “Maybe a little,” he teased, smirking. “But kinda ruined me in the best way, sweetheart.”

You didn’t say anything to that, just leaned your head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling fan for a while.

“You know,” you said then, “if I do go back, Russia never happens. You wouldn’t have to go through that.”

Ben’s lips twitched, almost in amusement. Oh, he thought about it, alright. Surely was fuckin’ tempting.

“Yeah? You sure you wouldn’t sell me out to the fuckin’ Commies next time you get pissed at me again?” he blurted out before stopping himself.

You inhaled sharply. “No,” you assured. “And I’m sorry, okay? That was–…”

“A dick move?” Ben supplied with a cocked brow.

You smiled. “Yeah, big time.”

“‘S fine. Deserved it,” he muttered under his breath.

“No, you didn’t,” you insisted with that same fucking softness in your eyes he’d always seen in you. “Which is why I’m sorry.”

There was silence between you again, but it wasn’t heavy and loaded anymore. It was comfortable. Calm. Familiar.

“So what now?” Ben asked then. “What happens if you stay here?”

“What do you mean?” Your brows scrunched again, and he didn’t like that tone in your voice – that finality in it.

“You still love me, or is this the courtesy break-up talk you’re granting me?”

You looked at him but didn’t respond. Just dropped your head back against the wall after a moment and closed your eyes.

“My parents aren’t dead,” your voice broke the silence and made his brows raise.

“I know time doesn’t fuckin’ matter to you, and you can see dead people or whatever, but death still fuckin’ exists.”

“No, I know that,” you said. “They’re not dead. They’re in Alaska.”

His brow shot up. “Alaska? But–”

“I did bring them to 1349, and I did leave them there,” you stated and bit your lip. “For about three years. Then I went back. For them, only five minutes had passed. Still scared the shit out of them.”

“So what? They fled to fuckin’ Alaska?”

“No, I dropped them there and told them not to come back, or I’d leave ‘em in the Middle Ages for good next time,” you shared, pulling your legs up and leaning forward on your knees.

“Recognizin’ a pattern here…”

You huffed a chuckle. “I guess so. But that’s not why I’m telling you this.”

“Why are you telling me?”

You swallowed. “They weren’t all bad, you know? I kept thinking about that. I mean, sure, they were addicts, and they didn’t really want me, but they had these phases… Every once in a while, they tried to get clean, and everything was just suddenly fine.“

Ben could see the tears collecting in your eyes and the lump forming in your throat.

“We’d go on these family trips,” you continued, laughing softly. “Once saw Salem Sue. You know that huge cow in North Dakota? And they’d also pick me up from school and take me for ice cream or pizza or to the mall. Stuff like that. They tried, you know? For a while, they did at least.”

Ben’s heart flared up at the sad smile twitching on your lips, however. His gut churned, like it already knew where the story was headed and what morals would be drawn from it.

“That was the thing, though. It never lasted,” you said. “Sometimes it was a week. Sometimes even a few months. At first, I got really exited. Happy ‘cause I finally had parents who gave a shit, you know? And I figured maybe we could be normal now. But it was always a phase. It wasn’t forever. Eventually, they’d go right back to being the shit parents they were, and I stopped expecting them to change. Stopped being hopeful and excited whenever they had good days because I knew it wouldn’t stay.”

“This isn’t a phase,” he said softly. Kept his eyes on you like it might convince you. “It’s not going anywhere. It’ll stick. I’ll stick.”

“Sure.” You nodded slowly and pressed your lips into a tight line, then gave a weak smile. “Think I haven’t heard it all before? I know all the words in the Book of Addict.”

That cut deep. Trust never came easy to you, and he’d already managed to break it several times.

“I’m not–” Ben didn’t finish. Just looked at you and swallowed around the thick lump in his throat while every cell in his body vibrated. He clenched his fists to stop the tremble in his hands – the constant buzz.

“You’re not, what?”

Ben ground his jaw. “I’ve been clean. I haven’t touched this shit in months.”

“You just made me buy pills and coke two weeks ago,” you said. “Called me at 3AM. Remember?”

“I didn’t take it,” he insisted. “I fuckin’ flushed it, alright? Gave it out as party favors. Just called you to keep you busy. Nothin’ more to it.”

And it was fucking true. Sometime shortly after Vought tower and Homelander, he’d stopped. He hadn’t used for forty years anyway, and he didn’t need the hallucinations of you anymore either because the real you had been right fucking there.

You leaned back against the wall with a sigh – unbothered and unaffected. “If you’re waiting for applause, you’re wasting your time. I’ve learned not to clap till the show’s over.”

He scoffed quietly, nodding. It was no fucking use, was it? Were you ever gonna believe him again?

“Don’t trust me? That’s fine,” he said, jaw aching from how hard he’d been grinding it. “I know you’re fuckin’ disappointed in me. Hell, I am too. But I’ll fuckin’ show you.”

“Guess we’ll see,” you replied, barely audible.

“Didn’t have collateral this entire year, either,” he added like that piece of information would finally convince you. “Not a single asshole died that didn’t deserve it.”

You snorted a laugh. “You’re not serious right now, are you? You woke up in this century with a fucking kill list and unchecked PTSD. You killed like fifty people in the first week.”

“After,” he countered. “After the tower. After you woke up from your fuckin’ coma, I stopped, alright?”

“Yeah, ‘cause everyone on your list was already dead,” you argued.

“Trust me. There’s more,” he rasped.

Stan Edgar. Butcher. Your parents. They were on his fucking hit list now, too. But he knew better than to say it out loud.

“Right.” You clicked your tongue.

“I didn’t explode today if you haven’t fuckin’ noticed. I’ve got it under control,” he argued further. “Even goddamn apologized to MM a year ago. Did he tell you?”

“He did.” You gave a small nod. “Did you actually fucking mean it, though?”

“I did,” he gritted through his teeth. “What d’you wanna hear, hm? I did horrible shit, alright. None of it I can fuckin’ take back. And I fuckin’ paid for all of it. Deserved it, too. But I swear to God I won’t let you fuckin’ down again. I won’t.”

You stayed quiet for a heartbeat, licking your lips, head bobbing. Then you met his eyes. “I think you should go,” you said so fucking soft and gentle like those words didn’t rip his heart straight out of his chest.

“Sweetheart, please.” He hated begging, but for you, he’d be devoutly on his knees for the rest of his goddamn life.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the door, ready to close it, but he stopped it, pushing his hand against the wood to keep it open. His mind, his gut, and his heart screamed at him that it’d never open again once it shut. He couldn’t let that fucking happen.

“Ben…”

You didn’t say his name in anger or annoyance. Your voice was just heavy with a tiredness that seemed to have seeped into your bones.

“Just a little longer? Please?” He stared at you till he saw the tiniest nod and you dropped your hand from the door with a sigh.

“Guess I’m Jeannie today. Just granting wishes left and right,” you muttered.

Ben lifted a brow. “Like I Dream of Jeannie Barbara Eden?” He grinned then. “Man, I loved that show.”

He didn’t mention he fucked Barbara Eden once at the Chateau. Thought it was best to keep that to himself.

“Well, don’t expect me to call you ‘master,’ Captain,” you huffed wryly.

“‘S fine. Eden didn’t do that either,” he muttered under his breath.

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he said quickly, clearing his throat.

You motioned with your chin to the box next to him. “That my stuff?”

Ben followed your gaze, gave half a shrug. “Uh, well, not just your shit. Just stuff from our time together in general. You ain’t gettin’ that projector back.”

You snorted in amusement, then crossed your arms and smirked challengingly. “What kinda stuff did you keep in there?”

He pursed his lips. “Uh, you know, just memorabilia.”

“Like what?”

He scowled, seeing you barely hide the grin at this point.

“If you tell me you kept old movie tickets from our date nights in there, I’m gonna call you a sentimental sap,” you teased.

The frown deepened. “Maybe I just hand ‘em to you separately.”

You stretched your neck slightly to look behind his torso. “What’s in the little box on top?”

“Ah.” A slow smirk curled on his lips. “That’s your little surprise.”

You arched an eyebrow. “You really think bribery’s gonna work?”

Ben took the small, pink box and held it out to you. “Just open it.”

You kept your little glare on him as you took the box before carefully opening the lid and peeking inside it as if he’d hidden poisonous snakes in there. Then your brow furrowed, head tilting in question.

“Cake?”

“Still your birthday for–,” he checked his watch, “–another twelve minutes.”

A frown.

“What d’you think you’re doing? This isn’t Sixteen Candles.”

“Didn’t say it was. Just wanted you to have cake on your birthday,” he said and twitched his shoulders almost innocently.

You inhaled sharply. Bit the inside of your cheeks.

Ha. That one got you.

“If you let me in, I can you show you what’s in that box while you eat cake,” Ben added.

“Let me in, children. Your mother has something for each and every one of you,” you said, your voice high and sweet and filled with bubbles of laughter.

Ben’s brow knitted. “Is that from a Grimm fairy tale?”

“Yup.”

“Huh,” he hummed. “My mother read those to me.”

“I know.”

“Right.” He clicked his tongue. “Forgot I told you that.”

“Yup,” you said again and popped the p. Your gaze, however, wasn’t on him but focused on the tips of your toes. “Moral of the story, though, I let you in, and you’ll eat me.”

Ben bit his lips hard, holding the fucking smirk back. Oh, he’d eat you, alright.

“Don’t,” you warned – cute little glare and all. “The way this has been going so far, I know once you’re inside, you’re never gonna leave, and then I have to leave, and I don’t wanna leave my apartment, so you’re staying out.”

Ben nodded, then smacked his lips. “Convincing.”

You exhaled a long sigh, he blinked, and then suddenly, you were skimming through pages of your notebook in concentration, still in the same spot you used to be like nothing had changed, the box next to him gone and now next to you.

Well, shit. He’d overplayed his fucking hand.

“What’s in there anyway?” he asked. “Never could fuckin’ read it.”

“That’s the point,” you replied without glancing up.

“Looks like fuckin’ hieroglyphs,” he muttered with a scoff.

“It’s a secret language I invented when I was six,” you shared. “I started keeping travel journals after the first few jumps, so I could keep track of everything. The different writing system functions as a fail-safe in case someone steals it or I accidentally leave it somewhere.”

“Huh. And what’s this one say?”

“Uh, it’s some equations, journal entries, memories from the future I wrote down before forgetting, which is why I need this now,” you said, turning pages like you were searching for something specific.

“Anything ‘bout me in there?”

“Everything’s about you in there.”

You still didn’t look up when you said it. Didn’t sound sentimental or even gentle. Just presented it as a fact.

He gestured toward the currently opened page in your lap. “What does this one say?”

“Oh, uhm…” You hesitated, brow knitting like you weren’t sure you cared to share it. “It’s from that day at the lake in May. The one where I pushed you off the dock.”

Ben laughed softly. “Remember that one. Wanna read it to me?”

You looked at him, then let out a breath. Slammed the notebook shut. “No, look, I’m tired. I’ve been awake for over thirty hours and this birthday has lasted close to six months. I’m basically jet-lagged. Can you just get to the point? Why are you here?”

Ben licked his lips and leaned back against the wall. His eyes found yours. “You already know why I’m here. Can’t tell me that you don’t. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.”

“I already told you what I want, and you’re not listening again,” you said, voice sharp as a whip. “Leave me alone. You hovering doesn’t help. I swear to God you’re the worst ex-boyfriend ever. I want time. That’s what I fucking want.”

Ben’s mouth opened and closed, green eyes flickering. The fucking thought alone was making his chest hum alive.

“I don’t want you to disappear again,” he admitted and swallowed around the lump in his throat.

You exhaled a deeply frustrated breath. “I’m not, alright? But only if you go now.”

He looked up the stairs leading to the street and away from you. “For how long? When can I come back?”

“Ben,” you sighed his name and rolled your eyes.

He nodded. Relented.

“Alright, fine.”

He rose from the uncomfortable concrete three minutes past midnight and glanced down at you one final time. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

You got back onto your feet as well, gave a nod, and the door closed.

Sleep was impossible.

No doubt, you were fucking exhausted. Tired in your bones, your blood, your heart, your goddamn soul.

But still – no fucking sleep.

As soon as you closed your eyes, your mind was racing. It wouldn’t shut off. And your heart? That was racing, too. Either from fear, yearning, or fucking both, you weren’t sure.

Ben was gone. Yet, he was still fucking everywhere.

You tossed. You turned. You sighed your frustrations at the ceiling and groaned into pillows. Counted sheep and listed the first one hundred decimals of pi. Still nothing.

It was too quiet or too loud. Too dark or too light. It wasn’t fucking home.

You hadn’t slept in this bed in months. Not really. And now, wrapped in its sterile warmth, blanket pulled up to your shoulder like armor, curled into a ball on the mattress like an Armadillo, you felt even farther from yourself.

Home felt like somewhere else now – in the bed you used to sleep and the guy you used to share it with.

Because not only were you struggling with your feelings, temporal jet-lag, and timelines – you also fucking missed him.

This wasn’t your bed. The spot next to you was empty. And nothing fucking smelled like him anymore.

No arms around you. No steady breathing next to you. Just emptiness – like entropy knocked on your fucking door tonight and invited itself in to stay.

Your muscles remembered another rhythm. Another routine. Another weight.

For five months, there’d been someone next to you. Someone you loved so much it fucking hurt. Now they were gone.

The worst, though? You thought you’d never get him back. Thought there was nothing left to rebuild. But after tonight, you weren’t quite so sure anymore. Tonight felt easy. Comfortable. Familiar.

It felt as if he was still there. Still him. Scraps of him buried under inches of shit, sure, but still.

You saw the flickers of light through the thicket. Saw not the supe, but Ben.

Twenty-three. Dumb as hell. Soft in the rarest places. Calloused hands that knew how to touch without hurting. A man who tucked you into his side like you were something worth keeping warm. A man who laughed in his sleep and sometimes pulled you closer without waking.

That was the rhythm you knew now. And without it, your own heartbeat felt wrong.

You shifted onto your back. Then your other side. Kicked the blanket off. Pulled it back on. Flipped the pillow. Nothing fucking helped.

He said he loved you. Then he said you were a liar.

He kept your things for eight decades. Then he pushed you away for a whole year.

And despite all the nightmares and the differences and all the cruel things he’d ever done or said, you still fucking loved him. God, that was the worst part.

You loved him. And Ben? He broke you open anyway.

Then it fucking hit – the first sob that clawed through your body like it had built since January of ’42.

The kind that crawled up your throat without warning. Ugly. Choking. Whole body shaking.

You curled into yourself, and it kept coming. Louder now. Guttural. The kind of crying that wracked your chest and made your teeth ache.

Everything fucking spilled out – the grief, the time, the loneliness, the betrayal.

You weren’t just mourning what he did.

You were mourning everything you thought you’d found in 1942 – all the people, the places, the versions of you that felt brighter and stronger and freer. You were mourning a life you couldn’t go back to. A home you’d built with hope and love, only to have it dissolve in a single blink of an eye.

You sobbed until you hiccupped.

Until the pillow was soaked beneath your cheek.

Until the silence swallowed you up again.

Until the knock came.

It wasn’t loud. Not like before. Three slow taps, almost reluctant – like he was giving you time to pretend you didn’t hear them.

Your breath hitched again. Your eyes, already raw, squeezed shut tighter. Like that might somehow undo the sound and make him disappear again.

Then came his voice – low and unsure in the night. “Can I come in?”

You stayed silent.

“Didn’t go far,” he admitted. “I heard you. Just wanted to check on you. Didn’t think you wanted me here. Still don’t, probably. But I’m askin’ anyway.”

You wanted to say something – to yell, to scream, to beg him to go or stay or hold you tighter – but your mouth wouldn’t work, and your chest was a collapsed building like a nuclear bomb had torn through it.

The words formed on your tongue, but your lips didn’t move.

“I’m gonna open the door now,” he gave you a warning shot. “If you don’t want me to, say somethin’. Don’t fuckin’ disappear on me, alright?”

You didn’t, and the door creaked open.

He stepped in slowly, boot steps soft for once. The smell of city air followed him in – summer heat and burning asphalt and different flavors of cuisine.

The couch beneath you dipped. The mattress creaked beneath his weight with carefulness. He didn’t reach for you right away. He sat still for a moment – like he was giving you one final out.

He always did.

And when there was no resistance, the warmth of his arm ghosted around your waist. Slow. Hesitant. Tentative. Like he expected you to pull away. Like he was afraid touching you might set the whole world off again.

You still didn’t stop him. You never did.

His chest then pressed lightly to your back. His hand settled just beneath your ribs – warm, solid, steady.

Fucking perfect.

“Hey, it’s me,” he whispered close to your ear, breath hot against your skin. “I’m still fuckin’ here.”

That was it – the fucking dam broke again.

You curled inward, sobbing so hard it felt like your lungs were trying to escape your body. Everything you’d buried – the grief, the fear, the ache of missing him – unraveled like a thread pulled too tight for too long, the seams of your heart giving way all at once.

Fury. Loneliness. Need – and somewhere in it, a kind of gut-deep relief that made your ribs hurt.

And Ben? He held you through it. He always did.

Didn’t say anything more. Didn’t try to fix it. Just anchored you with his body, impossibly strong and steady and safe behind you, grounding you to something fucking real in a world that was absurd.

He was gravity, and you were in free fall.

You pressed your forehead into your pillow and cried until there was nothing left but the sound of your own ragged breath. Ben’s nose buried in your hair, lips kissed your crown, arms wrapped around you tighter.

Eventually, your breath began to slow. Evened out into lazy waves.

You turned then in the arms around you – slow, cautious, unsure of what you were doing until your face found his chest, your palms flattened gently against him. Your body still slightly trembled like the aftershocks of an earthquake, but his warmth seeped through your skin and soothed it like a balm.

You looked up, and his eyes found yours instantly – quiet, wrecked, waiting. You searched his face like you were ensuring each freckle was still in place. He looked as tired as you felt, and he wasn’t armored now.

No sneer. No shield. Nothing cruel or smug or sure. Just him – the same guy who whispered dumb jokes in the dark to make you laugh and who let you fall asleep against his chest like he’d never let go.

Just Ben.

His hand lifted and brushed a tear from your soaked cheek. Then another. And another. His thumb lingered at your jawline, rough and gentle all at once.

His forehead touched yours, and you exhaled a soft, shaking breath. He tilted his head just slightly. Not pushing. Not rushing. Just waiting.

And you kissed him.

Soft.

Slow.

Salt still on your lips.

▶️ Chapter 17: The Stuff That Dreams Are Made of

A lot of you asked me "Omg, how are they ever gonna get back together after all of this and that brutal fight? Something big needs to happen." But I always felt like what they needed the most was a quiet night and no armor (or only little lol). Did you expect to end it there?

And for you angsty souls out there – don't worry. Something big's still coming that will either solidify their bond more or break it altogether 😉

Coming Up:

“You want me to leave?”

Your gaze drifted to the door, then back to him. You shook your head. “Actually, I was thinking about taking a drive.”

Ben lifted a brow in surprise. “Like a joyride?”

You scoffed a chuckle. “Trust me. There won’t be any joy.”

“Even better.” He smirked and watched you roll your eyes back.

“It’s a memory thing,” you shared and grabbed your nonsensical notebook from the nightstand. “Just have to check some things I wrote in here. See if it jogs anything.”

Ben bobbed his head, gave you a smirk – just a flicker of it. “You want company?”

You didn’t smile, but your voice came softer this time. “If you can behave.”

He chuckled low in his chest. “No promises, sweetheart.”

🚀 Read up to 4 chapters ahead on Patreon now

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Because somewhere after all the yelling and the crushing silence that followed, he noticed what you hadn’t taken with you: your purse. No keys. No phone either – since you’d left that thing in ‘42 and it was still corroding in a box at his place. Plus, there was also the slight issue of spotty memories.

You just stormed out like you had somewhere to go and something to prove, marching off like you had a plan when you were really just bleeding pride and borrowed bravado.

Fuckin’ typical.

And now, here he was – walking the streets like a goddamn idiot, looking for you, all the while assuring himself it wasn’t about you. He didn’t stalk you because he thought he’d be welcome or even get a thanks – hell no. You’d made it fucking clear he was the last person you wanted to see. He told himself he was only doing a simple safety check. Damage control. That was all – not care.

But that was all bullshit, and he knew it, too. The truth was a lot uglier:

He still gave a damn about you. More than he wanted to. More than he probably should. But nonetheless, he still undeniably loved you. Still wanted to fix what he broke, even if you’d never let him. So he followed because the idea of you out there – alone, angry, lost – felt worse than anything you could’ve said to him.

Even the part about the Reds.

You could hate him all you wanted. But he wasn’t gonna sit on his ass while you bled out in some alley trying to prove you didn’t need anyone, least of all him.

The sun was starting to dip behind the rooftops, painting everything in a buttery orange that couldn’t even make the cracked sidewalks and rusted window grates look poetic.

Ben stood on the corner of 10th Street and Waverly, jaw twitching and arms crossed like a bouncer on break as he leaned against a rusted lamppost and scanned every damn alley, stoop, and corner store on the block in the waning summer light.

Greenwich Village still smelled like weed, dog piss, and overpriced coffee. Same as always. It also had some of the worst goddamn real estate he’d ever seen. One could slap Monet lighting on a shit neighborhood and it’d still be a shit neighborhood.

“Dumb fuckin’ kid,” he muttered and rubbed a hand down his face.

Ben spotted you before you spotted him – easy to do, since you were squinting at every third brownstone like it might suddenly turn into your damn front door. Not to mention, you looked like you’d just walked off the soundstage from The Philadelphia Story.

That damn navy dress still clung to your frame, though it had started to dry and wrinkle in the June heat. Hair slightly mussed, the red bow off-center like it was hungover, while you spun around on bare feet like a broken compass.

Just sheer force of will and bad directions.

You were walking with the determination of someone absolutely certain they weren’t lost, which meant you were definitely fucking lost.

Of course you fuckin’ were.

If there was one thing he could count on, it was your stubborn-ass pride. You’d walk until your legs probably gave out before admitting you didn’t know where the hell you were going. It was a character flaw. And oddly fuckin’ adorable.

Ben pushed off the post and crossed the street, dodging a food delivery guy on a goddamn scooter and weaving between pedestrians.

“Well, well,” he said, loud enough to catch your attention. “Fancy runnin’ into you in the street again.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” You spun around mid-step, scowling. “Are you serious right now?”

Ben smirked. “Missed me?”

You, on the other hand, looked murderous. “Go. Away.”

“Not a fuckin’ chance.”

“I told you to stop following me.”

“Didn’t do that in ‘42 either, if I remember correctly,” he shot back, falling into step beside you without invitation.

“Yeah, and if you’d fucking listened to me back then, we probably wouldn’t be in this goddamn mess,” you retorted and picked up your pace.

Picking you up off the street that day? Still the best fucking decision he ever made.

Ben gave a taunting laugh. “Yeah, you yelled at me to stop followin’ you. Then took off like you knew what the hell you were doin’. No fuckin’ plan. No fuckin’ idea what year it was. Refused help, told me to screw off. Kept sayin’ you were fine like that’d make it true. Sound familiar? You pulled this same shit back in ‘42.”

You exhaled like the air around him was toxic and turned again. Ben followed – again. Because that’s what he did now, apparently. Chasing fucking ghosts who didn’t want him.

“Greenwich ain’t that big, sweetheart. Even you’re gonna run outta blocks eventually,” he quipped patiently. “Where you headed?”

“Home.”

“Oh yeah?” He slowed to a smug stroll. “Need help finding your place, sweetheart?”

“I don’t need anything from you,” you muttered while squinting at street signs.

Ben held up your purse like a white flag. “Yeah? Then whose keys are these?”

Your glare faltered just half a second before you snatched the bag out of his grip. “Give it.”

“C’mon, I’ll walk you home,” Ben said, jerking his chin up the sidewalk. He exhaled a sigh, shook off some of the impatience in his bones, and tried again – a little softer. “Let me walk you home, okay?”

“Fuck off,” you spat and thundered right past him.

Of course. Because why would you make it fucking easy for once?

“You even know what street you live on? What your building looks like? Your front door?”

“Yes.”

“You sure? ‘Cause you passed it ‘bout five fuckin’ blocks ago.”

You sighed in dramatic annoyance, still checking street signs and shops for some kind of clarity. Didn’t look at him. Ignored him – or whatever the fuck you were doing because of your stupid pride.

“I’m looping around, okay? None of your fucking business,” you huffed and spun halfway, glancing back down the direction you came from.

Ben snorted. Couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Loop around? You think Manhattan’s a fuckin’ circle now, sweetheart?”

Your glare snapped to him. “I’m taking the scenic route.”

“Through this shit neighborhood?” Ben cocked a brow. He was still not supposed to laugh, right?

“I have a general sense of direction, okay? I don’t fucking need you to play hero. You suck at it, anyway,” you bit and started down the street toward the food carts again.

“Afraid I’ve still got the directional advantage,” he said, slowing beside you. “You’re not even close to your fuckin’ place. You’re lost.”

“I’m not lost. I’m–” You stopped and blinked around again.

Ben rolled his eyes, sighing under his breath. “Lemme guess. You’re close, right?”

“I am close,” you insisted and then pointed vaguely up the end of the block. “My apartment’s just–… down that way."

What kind of delusional brand of stubborn fucking were you exactly?

Ben turned his head and looked down the street with theatrical dismay. “Really? ‘Cause you’re not even pointin’ in the right direction, sweetheart. Unless your place got up and walked in the last twenty minutes, you’re ‘bout three blocks off.”

“God, do you ever shut up?”

“It’s the third time you’re passin’ the Korean BBQ, sweetheart,” Ben continued, voice full of smugness he couldn’t shake. Somehow he’d missed that kind of back-and-forth with you. “Guy inside thinks you’re casin’ the place. Looked terrified. Think he’s about to call the cops.”

“Why the fuck are you still here, huh? You got what you fucking wanted,” you snapped. “The loop’s done. You’re still you in all your fucked-up glory. We can go our separate ways again. You don’t fucking need me anymore.”

Ben smiled through the pain in his chest. “You’re fuckin’ smart, but you’ve never been more wrong.”

You were never gonna believe him, were you? You were never gonna trust him again. It was like he could finally see all the shattered pieces floating in the vast space between you and him. He didn’t know which ones to reach for first to try glueing it all back together again. It seemed fucking impossible.

You opened your mouth, getting ready to argue again, but were cut off.

“Oh my god,” a guy with a DSLR slung around his neck and a shopping bag in hand interrupted brightly, stumbling to a stop beside you. “Are you an extra on Mrs. Maisel? Is this for season six? You look so perfect. My wife’s a big fan. You think I could get a–”

“She’s not on some dumb fuckin’ show. Beat it, jackass,” Ben barked. “We’re in the middle of somethin’.”

“Sorry! Love the costume though!” the guy called back before jogging away.

Ben watched you cross your arms tightly around yourself, suddenly becoming a little more aware of the people around you.

“What was that about? Who’s–” Your brow furrowed, trying to find the words on the tip of your tongue like they were just hiding underneath it.

“You don’t remember?” Ben licked his lips, watched you timidly shake your head. “It’s a show you used to watch with the girls. Some dumb feminist bullshit. Caught five minutes of it that made me want to slit my goddamn throat.”

“Is that why they all are staring at me? Because of the clothes?” you asked him, and Ben wasn’t even sure you meant to direct the question at him, but you still did.

He looked around as well. Bystanders, tourists, one idiot with a fanny pack trying to take a picture who Ben was fighting the urge to punch. He nodded slightly, focusing back on you. “That, and the fact you look like a fuckin’ bootleg Casablanca extra doin’ the walk of shame – which ain’t a wrong assumption, I guess.”

You rolled your eyes. “Are you trying to make this worse?”

“Don’t have to try.”

You staggered a little then – just a twitch, really. But Ben saw it and felt the worry creep in. He’d seen it once before. A minute later, he’d jumped out of a window at Vought Tower almost a year ago now.

Ben smacked his lips and took a step closer when you weren’t looking. “Listen, how ‘bout we cut the rerun of the pride parade short, and you just come with me instead?”

You whipped around. “What?”

“My place,” he said. “Penthouse. Midtown. Working A/C, real water pressure, clean towels. You can crash there. No strings. It’s quiet. You can get some rest. You look fuckin’ exhausted. Hell, it’s even big enough so you don’t have to see me.”

It worked the first time around. Maybe it would work a–

“Are you fucking insane?” You stared like he’d just offered to dissect your brain. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Figured.” He shrugged coolly. “Still had to ask.”

Worth a shot.

You resumed walking. He followed again.

“Your apartment’s a shitty basement unit under a crumblin’ brownstone. It’s got a busted window latch, cracked blue kitchen tiles, and peeling wallpaper. You can hear every argument from the goddamn street. Really sellin’ the whole ‘modern woman’ vibe in that palace,” Ben muttered. “Never liked you livin’ there.”

“I like it. That’s all that fucking matters,” you huffed.

“You can’t even remember that shithole.”

“It’s still mine.”

Ben exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. “Fine. Whatever.”

He’d been to your place before – both when you were there and when you weren’t. He’d snuck in sometimes when you hadn’t been home, looked through your stuff as he tried to get to know the real you. Find out who you truly were beyond the version of you he’d met in the forties. He’d stand in the middle of your shitty kitchen like a burglar with no intent. Reading scraps. Photos. Mugs with chipped sides. All of it too small. Too worn.

Not good enough for you – not even close.

“I don’t need your help,” you gritted through your teeth. “I didn’t ask you to be here.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need someone,” he said softer than he thought he would.

You scoffed in disbelief. “And you think that someone is you? After what you fucking did?”

Ben set his jaw. “I didn’t come here to argue.”

“Good. Then leave.”

“Not until you stop wobblin’ like a fuckin’ baby deer on meth.”

“Fuck you.”

“There it is.” A slow smirk crawled across his lips. “Gotta say – the entertainment value’s fuckin’ great, sweetheart. Watchin’ you try to outstubborn your own brain’s a hell of a show.”

“I swear to God, if you don’t stop following me, then–”

“Then what? Hm?” Ben prompted and met you head-on, although his heartbeat was slightly accelerating. He’d heard it the first time – your threat. “You gonna throw me back to the eighties and the Reds? I don’t give a shit.”

He did. He gave all the shits. God, he was praying big time this wouldn’t fucking backfire. That he wouldn’t antagonize you so much you’d actually do it. But what more did he have than a fucking bluff?

All in or fuckin’ nothing.

You ceased all movements and looked up at him then. Brow a little creased, eyes fierce. But there was something darker in your gaze than just fury or threats – determination.

“No, I won’t bring you back there,” you said, and he would’ve exhaled a breath of relief if your voice hadn’t been so gentle – so fucking calm. “But I will go. I’ll leave. Pick a place in time you can’t reach, and I promise you’ll never fucking find me again.”

Ben’s heart sputtered to a stop. Shit. He hadn’t accounted for that – not for your powers being fully back once you’d returned and not for you disappearing on him again.

Actually, there was a lot of shit he hadn’t correctly calculated. Probably because you were the fucking math genius and not him. And he couldn't exactly turn back fucking time either. All he could do was punch a hole into his own goddamn head and hope that'd make it better.

His jaw locked tight to keep the muscle from twitching. “Don’t fuckin’ do that,” he snarled before swallowing the anger down. “Don’t-... Don't leave… please.”

You stared at him for a long moment then – you angry, him angry (and a little desperate at this point), chests heaving.

“Then finally let me fucking go, Ben,” you said, and the words prickled like knives in his heart.

You wanted him to do the only thing he couldn’t do – that he swore he’d never do. Letting you go was not an option. It never had been. He’d tried it before, so many goddamn times he’d lost count.

Fuckin’ futile.

Still, this time, he almost did. What else was there to fucking do? He was running out of goddamn ideas till his brain reminded him that you’d called him by his name just now. You’d said it. Actually fucking said it.

To him.

As if he wasn’t an entirely different person like you so vehemently claimed he was. So maybe you did see it – saw him like you used to. At least starting to.

Before his brain could supply more brilliant ideas, he caught you staggering another step. One more step backward and your hand darted to the brick wall beside you. You blinked, your knees shook, breaths grew labored. Your nose twitched, and your hand flew up to your face.

The blood came fast – just a drip, then another, your fingertips painted red.

His stomach dropped, his smirk dropped faster. Your knees gave just enough to make him lunge forward, and Ben was at your side in a second, arms reaching for you.

“Whoa, shit–… Hey, easy… I got you–”

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

Your voice hit like a whip. Not loud. Not harsh. Just final.

It stopped him cold. The words sank deep. Cut clean. Same tone you’d used back in 1942.

Same shit you said to him when he first offered you his hand and you looked at it like it was a trap. You didn’t want comfort then. You didn’t want it now either.

Ben slowly lowered his hands and backed off – and it hurt like fucking hell.

You leaned heavily against the wall of the corner store and slowly slid down to the cool concrete with a wince. Back slumped, one knee up, blood still streaking down the side of your face. Your eyes were sharp. Distant. Locked up like you couldn’t afford to let him close.

He watched you for a beat, jaw clenching. You were breaking. Physically. But you still wouldn’t let him in.

Of course not.

Ben raked a hand through his hair. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ… Fuckin’ always the hard way with you. You’re goddamn impossible.”

You looked like you wanted to argue but thought better of it in the last second. Just shut your eyes and tipped your head back against the wall.

“You’ve been pushin’ too fuckin’ hard. Same shit all over again,” he swore under his breath, pacing in front of you. “How many was it, huh? Three time jumps today? Maybe four? Five? What the fuck were you thinkin’? You think your brain’s a fuckin’ trampoline?”

No response, just you with your eyes squeezed shut and concentrated on your breathing.

“Every damn time,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Can’t take help. Can’t slow down. Got a fuckin’ death wish?”

Still nothing.

Ben took a steadying breath. “Okay, fine. You don’t want my goddamn help? Fuckin’ fine.”

He yanked out his phone and started tapping that stupid fucking touchscreen, searching for the only number in there that wasn’t his dealer or some idiot from Vought’s PR team.

You peeked at him through half-lidded eyes. “Who are you calling?”

“Someone who’ll pick you up and get you home,” he said gruffly.

“Who?”

“Annie.”

Your brow raised. “Annie?”

“She’s your friend,” Ben clarified, crouching next to you now, still careful not to touch, although he’d love to do nothing more than reach out and brush a loose strand of hair out of your face. “Goes by Starlight in the cape world. Blonde. Church-girl energy, but don’t let that fool you. She’d kick anyone’s ass for you. Kinda talks like a Midwest Girl Scout with a vengeance complex.”

Your lips twitched just barely.

“She might bring her boy toy along – String Bean. Pale and nervous. Has that wet-rescue-puppy look. Talks too much. Always yappin’ about feelings. Makes me wanna drown myself in Listerine,” Ben added and swore he heard a ghost of a snort. “Hell, Baguette Boy and his mutant ninja girlfriend might trail along as well. Probably make it a goddamn team event,” he scoffed and rolled his eyes a little, then looked back at you. “They’re your people. You used to trust them. Don’t fuckin’ ask me why. They’re a bunch of soft-ass weirdos.”

You were quiet. Breathing slow. Still pale.

Ben let out a sigh and then hit the contact he never wanted to use.

“Annie,” he snapped when she picked up. “Yeah, it’s me. Shut up – and don’t fuckin’ hang up.”

He looked down at you. You had blood on your hands now. Smudged across your cheek.

“Your bestie’s on West 10th and Bleeker. Alley next to the weird bookstore that smells like fuckin’ feet... Yeah, that one. Says she’s fine and lying ‘bout it. Looks like shit.” He exhaled a theatrical sigh through his nose and turned his eyes heavenward briefly. “I’m not fuckin’ touching her! She made that crystal clear… You gonna come get your girl or what? Fuckin’ hurry before I duct tape her to a bench.”

Ben hung up.

“She’s comin’. Gonna be here soon and get you home, alright?”

He sat back against the wall beside you then, just far enough not to invade. Just close enough to catch you if you tipped. For a long moment, there was only silence between you. Just the hum of traffic and the soft buzz of a city that didn’t care who was bleeding or broken, so long as they weren’t in the way.

“Thanks,” you mumbled almost inaudibly.

Ben’s head snapped to you, eyes locking on you before he swallowed. You weren’t looking at him, but your voice was clear. Quiet. Honest.

And surprised – like you hadn’t expected him to do the right thing.

Progress?

Ben cleared his throat. “Yeah, don’t get fuckin’ used to it, sweetheart.”

You huffed something like a laugh. Maybe. He didn’t ask for clarification.

You were half-passed out against the wall by the time he heard footsteps coming fast down the block.

When Annie rounded the corner about ten minutes later in a denim jacket and moral superiority, Ben stood and gave you two space, letting her do what he couldn’t.

She dropped beside you in a halo of blonde hair and vanilla body spray. Her voice was soft and urgent at the same time. “Hey, I got you. Oh my God, you okay? We’re going home, alright? Easy now.”

You stirred a little. You seemed to recognize her – maybe not by name but by feel. You didn’t pull away, leaned on her without resistance as she helped you to your feet.

Annie shot him a look as she passed. A quiet one. A little grateful. A little suspicious.

Ben just nodded. He didn’t exactly trust himself either. He watched silently as the two of you disappeared around the corner. You didn’t say goodbye, but you did look over your shoulder at him for a flash of a second.

And then?

Ben followed. A quiet shadow down the sidewalk. Two blocks behind. Just in case. Because if you passed out again, he’d be there. Even if it wasn’t him you wanted. Even if you’d never ask him to catch you.

Because whether you asked or not – he wasn’t ready to stop watching your six.

Because he always would.

It was a bad fuckin’ idea.

Ben knew it was a mistake the second he got off the elevator, walked down that too-clean hallway with the too-bright lights, and stopped in front of the most unassuming goddamn door in all of New York.

He’d stood there for a solid thirty seconds, fist raised, before he finally knocked. Hell, not knocked. He fucking pounded on the door like he was serving a warrant. Three heavy thuds – enough to make the picture frames on the other side rattle.

The kid opened the door cautiously, blinking up at him like someone had just activated his goddamn social anxiety from across the hall. “Uh… hey?”

Hughie. Small. Pale. Looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Hair sticking up, socks mismatched, holding a bowl of popcorn like it was a fucking shield against intruders.

Ben didn’t wait for an invitation. He brushed straight past String Bean and walked right in. Honestly, the kid should be fucking grateful he didn’t burst through the door like the goddamn Kool Aid Man.

“Ya know, you should really get a chain on that door. You live in New York, not Mister Rogers’ neighborhood,” Ben said, glancing around and scrunching his nose into something that resembled disgust. “Someone could just fuckin’ walk in and murder you.”

“You literally just did that…” he heard the kid mutter under his breath and ignored it.

Everything was fucking soft in here. Ben hated it. The place was small. Clean. A little too put together, which meant Annie decorated it. Warm lighting. Throw blankets. Scented candles. Fluffy pillows. A framed photo of the kid’s dad on the wall.

Jesus fuck.

Ben dropped onto the couch and let out a sigh like he hated furniture on principle. Hughie hovered behind him like a fucking hostage.

“Place looks like a Crate & Barrel catalogue threw up in here,” he muttered.

“Uh, thanks?” Hughie scratched the back of his neck. “I–… uh, Annie’s not here, if that’s–”

“I know where she is,” Ben snapped. “I didn’t come here for her. And would you fuckin’ relax? I’m not here to kill you either.”

“That is… surprisingly not comforting,” the kid mumbled and stepped a little closer.

“Need somethin’,” Ben murmured without looking at him.

“You need something?” Hughie slowly arched a brow.

“Advice.”

“Advice?”

“Fuckin’ Christ on a cross, is there a goddamn echo in here?” Ben grunted in annoyance. “I just said that, right? You gonna repeat everything I fuckin’ say?”

“Uh, right, sorry… No, guess not.” Hughie shook his head, swallowing. “Just–… you know, surprising. You… here.”

Ben just stared at him, deadpan.

“Okay, yeah, uh… what-, uh, what can I help you with, I guess?” Hughie shuffled awkwardly into an armchair like he was about to be interrogated.

Ben rubbed a palm over his face. Jesus fucking Christ. Big mistake. Colossal.

“So…” Hughie’s palms drummed on his thighs. “Advice on…?”

“Women.”

The kid’s brow furrowed so much Ben worried he’d get an aneurysm.

“From... me?”

“Are you deaf?”

“Right, yeah, sorry.” Hughie swallowed once more, then cleared his throat.

Ben looked around the room, jaw grinding. “Look, you’re a scrawny, overtalking anxiety ball in sneakers and a thrift store hoodie who somehow landed a girl ten leagues outta your fuckin’ pay grade. So clearly you’ve got something going for you.”

“Thanks? Is that a compliment?”

“Don’t push it,” Ben grunted. “So, how d’you fuckin’ do it?”

Hughie tilted his head. “Are you asking how I got Annie?”

“I’m asking how you got her to stay.”

“Oh.”

There was a long pause. Ben felt stupid just sitting there. What the hell was he doing? He shouldn’t have fucking come here. Why the fuck did he think the kid was his last resort?

Because you hated him. And not in the fun, flirty, “we’ll argue and make out” kind of way. The real kind. The kind that had teeth.

And Hughie? You liked him. Ben had overheard you say several times over the last year that String Bean was a good fuckin’ boyfriend to Barbie. And if he really thought about it he knew why you liked the kid so much. He reminded Ben a little of himself. He used to be like that, didn’t he? Soft. Still better, but he supposed the mushy heart was the fucking same.

Ben leaned forward and looked at the floor for a second, rubbed his palms. “She hates me.”

“Are we talking about–”

Ben gave him a look.

“Her. Right… Sorry.” Hughie blinked. “Just wanted to make sure, you know? ‘Cause you two… Well, I mean, are you honestly surprised she hates you? You’ve kinda been a dick to her since you’ve known her.”

“I was more than a dick to her,” Ben muttered.

“Yeah, I was trying to be nice,” Hughie retorted and closed his mouth instantly upon Ben’s glare. “So, what? You... like her now? What did she mean when she said you knew? What did you know?”

“Not fuckin’ important,” Ben huffed.

“Man, c’mon, you can’t do that. You gotta give me context. Something,” Hughie argued weakly. “How else am I supposed to help you?”

“Just get to the goddamn part where you tell me how to make her forgive me,” Ben snapped. “And you better suggest somethin’ more useful than flowers or jewelry. She hates that fuckin’ shit. Would probably try to strangle me if I gave her a necklace.”

Hughie squinted his eyes at him, straining himself a bit too much. “Uhm, so… what you said back at the office, that was true?”

Ben stared at him. “What part?”

“The-, uh, the… cum part.”

Shoot him. Or better yet – he’s gonna shoot the fucking kid soon.

Ben just glared silently.

“So you two actually slept together,” Hughie said like he realized he’d entered some goddamn horror movie. “That’s, uhm… Wow, okay.”

“What?!”

“Nothing.” Hughie cleared the awkward lump from his throat. “Just… surprising. That’s all.”

“You’ve said that before,” Ben gritted.

“Do you–…” Hughie stopped and pressed his lips together.

“Do I what?”

“Love her,” Hughie answered. “You do, don’t you?”

Ben didn’t respond. Just ground his teeth.

“So that’s a yes,” Hughie surmised and blew a raspberry, thinking. “Wait…” He cocked his head then, the creases on his brow deepening. “Did you know her?”

“What d’you mean?” Ben prompted with his last thread of patience. Something was wrong with your fucking generation. Fuckin’ seriously.

“I mean like… from the past? Your past,” Hughie clarified.

Ben’s jaw clenched. “None of your fuckin’ business.”

“So that’s another yes,” Hughie muttered under his breath, gaining a little more attitude.

Ben took a deep breath, tongue swiping over his teeth, eyes still on the floor and the godawful carpet. “I fucked up,” he admitted and hated how the words tasted like rust in his mouth.

“Yeah, no shit,” Hughie mumbled as if he still didn’t know after a goddamn year that Ben had super-hearing. “I mean, what, uh-, what exactly did you do? How did you fuck up?”

“Doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” Ben muttered.

“No, uh, trust me – it-, it does,” Hughie said and gave a nervous chuckle.

Ben exhaled a sigh and found the kid’s eyes. “You know what I did. Just tell me how I can make her forget all the crap I put her through this year.”

“I don’t know. Dementia, maybe?” Hughie retorted.

Ben scowled and clicked his tongue. “You wanna get fuckin’ slapped again? I don’t think you’re fuckin’ charged now, are ya?”

Hughie pursed his lips and quietly placed his hands in his lap.

Ben scoffed. “Yeah, thought so.”

“I’m trying to help you, alright? Could be a little nicer. I mean, that’s the real issue here, right?” Hughie shot back.

Well, look at that little shit. Finally grew some fuckin’ balls without the poison.

Ben leveled with him, softened just the tiniest bit. “Just tell me how to fix it, okay? Last year, Barbie was pretty pissed at you, right? What did you do to get outta the doghouse?”

Hughie scratched his head. “Honestly? I just showed up and… listened. You know, no ego, no pressure, no superhero shit. Just let her know that I was there for her.”

“That it?” Ben stared at him like the kid had spoken in tongues.

“Uh… yeah.”

“I hate that.” He slumped back into the fluffy fucking cushions. He wasn’t exactly a patient guy after eighty-one years.

“Yeah, I-, uh, I wasn’t really a big fan of it at first either,” Hughie admitted with a breath of a chuckle. “Still aren’t, actually.”

“Great.” Ben stood with an exhaustive sigh. “Well, this was a waste of my time. You were fuckin’ useless.”

Hughie forced a tight smile. “Glad I could help.”

Ben walked to the door, hand already curling around the knob when he heard String Bean pipe up again.

“Wait, uhm–” Hughie looked at him like he wasn’t sure Ben deserved another second or even something that remotely resembled help, but then he crossed his arms. “Does she love you?”

Ben turned and met Hughie’s eyes, then gave a faint nod, even though he wasn’t sure if that word didn’t belong into the past tense now.

“Okay, uhm… Look,” String Bean started, “for your very… vague situation, maybe remind her what she loved about you in the first place, you know?”

Ben frowned when the kid muttered “if it’s still there” under his breath.

“It is,” he bit but absolutely hadn’t meant to fucking blurt that out. Emotional vulnerability felt like peeling his own fucking skin off. But still, his head bobbed with an idea. “I might know somethin’,” he muttered.

Ben didn’t elaborate. Just ripped open the door and left without a goodbye or thanks.

Your head was buzzing like a beehive.

The stairs down to your apartment felt longer than you recalled. Also more narrow. And steeper. The concrete was uneven and damp with the kind of city sweat that never quite evaporated.

The iron gate creaked as Annie pushed it open. She didn’t say much as she helped you down them. Just stayed close, her shoulder brushing yours like she’d done it before a million times.

By the time you reached the door, you were exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with muscle and everything to do with brain. You never would’ve found this place on your own.

Your front door was green? You could’ve sworn it was red.

“This is you,” Annie said softly, her voice in that tone that she’d probably use for a kindergartner too as she unlocked the door. “Your home.”

Home.

A shudder ran down your spine at the word, skin crawling with fire ants.

And the moment you stepped inside, your senses short-circuited.

The kitchen had baby-blue tiles with cracks. There was a worn couch against the wall next to it. A bookshelf next to the door was crammed with notebooks, physics textbooks, photo albums, and mismatched mugs. A hallway led to the bathroom and also served as a closet, apparently.

It was goddamn small. Ben’s bedroom had been thrice the size of your entire apartment. But it wasn’t just your place – the city as well. Everything suddenly felt too loud, too confined, too hectic.

There was no space to breathe anymore. Worst of all – you didn’t recognize any of it.

But it was slowly coming back to you, bits and pieces crawling back into your mind. You remembered Annie’s last name and her birthday again. You knew that you’d always talked French with Frenchie, which was an easy mnemonic. You’d weirdly remembered Butcher first out of all of them, as if your brain was sorting them all by level of danger to you.

Survival first, friends second.

The apartment looked lived-in. Personal. Even the clutter felt intentional. But none of it truly felt like yours.

Annie hovered behind you for a beat. “Still exactly how you left it. I mean… you were only gone an hour from our side.”

You nodded, numbly. “Right.”

“How long-, uhm–” Annie started and swallowed, “How long were you gone on your side?”

You pressed your lips together, not really wanting to talk about it – at least not now. It had been one fucking long day.

“Five months,” you still replied.

“Wow.” Annie tried not to let her shock show too much, but it was obvious. “And Soldier Boy was there? Like, the whole time?”

You swallowed and gave a slight nod, not saying more.

Annie’s frown deepened. “When–… or where did you–”

“Look, uhm…” you cut in, squeezing your eyes shut with the next migraine attack. “I don’t wanna be rude, but I’m exhausted.”

“No, totally. We can talk another time,” Annie said quickly. “Get some rest, alright? Your couch pulls out into a bed, by the way.”

“Great,” you sighed but still forced a grateful smile. “Thanks. For everything.”

“You sure you don’t need anything? I can stay, you know?” Annie checked, gifting you a smile that was probably supposed to be reassuring. “No talking. I promise.”

“No, uh, thank you,” you said slowly. “I think I just need some time alone right now. Sleep. Sort through my stuff. Figure out which shirts are my favorite again.”

Annie giggled, but mostly out of politeness to hide her concern. “Right, yeah. I’ll check on you tomorrow again, okay?”

“Sure.” You nodded and watched her disappear out the door, releasing a breath of relief.

Alone at last. It hadn’t been like this for a while.

You were too goddamn tired to care what shit littered your apartment, or what you remembered and what you didn’t. You knew where your shower was, so that was where you headed first.

You peeked into the spotted mirror for a mere second and barely recognized yourself. No wonder all these people had fucking gawked at you in the street.

You turned on the shower and let it steam up the mirror to hide your reflection. Then you undressed – let the navy dress that clung to your skin finally slide down to your feet.

You’d put it on this morning. But it wasn’t yours. Not anymore.

The water was warm, the spray soothing, even though you barely fit into the small shower. However, none of it truly cured the aches you felt everywhere. But the white noise of the rushing water at least tuned out everything else and let your mind finally quiet.

It all happened too fucking fast.

You got up at 7:39 AM on June 16th, 2023. You knew because your alarm always went off at half past seven, and you’d always hit the snooze button once. It was routine.

Only for you, that had already happened more than five months ago. Not today. Not this morning.

This morning, in 1942 on July Fourth that was, you opened your eyes sometime shortly after six. You didn’t wake up alone. You woke up when Ben entered you and whispered “good morning” into your ear with a lazy, half-asleep smirk like he sometimes used to do. It was almost routine, too.

Then you’d spent the entire day with him by your side. Laughing. Dreaming. Loving.

Now it was nothing. All gone.

Now, you were here.

You used to have a twenty-three-year-old boyfriend, who was equally parts sweet and charming and absolutely fucking unbelievable. He was human. A miracle. A challenge. A secret worth cracking and a man worth loving.

And now? Now he was 104, wrecked, rough, and cruel in ways you still didn’t have names for. Selfish. Manipulative. A fucking liar.

Sure, you knew you weren’t entirely innocent either in all of this. You could’ve walked away back then. Figured it out on your own. You should’ve.

But you let Puck take the wheel, saw an opportunity you couldn’t resist. What was the harm, after all? Solider Boy was awful and vicious. He’d deserve it.

Maybe you’d teach him a lesson, just to see if you could. Maybe you’d find something embarrassing or personal or worthy of blackmail.

But you hadn’t expected to find this. Never thought you’d fall so fucking hard that it’d hurt to get back up.

You never thought you’d fall in love with him. But you fucking had.

What now?

Rough fucking birthday, even longer fucking day…

You turned off the shower and stepped out. Another look in the mirror told you you looked slightly better. Not as rough around the edges like before. You didn’t smell like him anymore either. That both somehow helped and didn’t.

But you still felt him in your fucking bones, your blood, your heart. The hot water couldn’t wash it out of your system. He’d festered in your soul like a cancer – or fucking salvation.

Because truth was, you still fucking loved him. Still saw him – all of him. Still understood him.

And it all made it hurt so much fucking more.

How could he have fucking done this? To you. To everyone. To himself.

Tiredly, your fingers then ransacked through your closet and a stack of t-shirts. You recognized some but not all. You put on the one you’d decided you liked the most and then moved into the tiny living space, pulled out the couch to a bed with a loud squeak, and went through the crate of chaotically organized vinyls next to it before putting one that sounded good on the old record player in the corner.

Then you plopped down and finally closed your eyes. Gave your spinning mind some peace. It took five and a half songs before you heard it – a knock at your door.

Your heart jolted to a halt, released a breath of relief, and then plotted how it could escape your ribcage and jump into his arms. You knew who was standing on your doorstep before you even heard his voice.

Ben.

▶️ Chapter 16: I Don't Care What the Papers Say!

Looks like they have a couple of things to figure out next week 😉 How did you guys like this one? I craved the slower pace a bit, especially after the last one, and loved writing that little deja-vu street chase. Is he still as charming and sweet as he was in the '40s? 😜

Coming Up:

Ben exhaled slowly. “Why haven’t you gone back yet?”

You blinked at him, brow close to reaching your hairline.

“You could, right? You have your powers again. You could go back right to that moment before it all went to shit,” he clarified.

You were quiet for a beat. “I could. Thought about it.”

Ben’s head bobbed thoughtfully. “But you haven’t, right? Otherwise we still wouldn’t be sittin’ here.”

“No, guess not…”

“Why?”

You found his eyes, and he could see the tears gleaming in yours. Then you gave a weak shrug of your shoulders. “‘Cause it wasn’t real.”

His jaw clenched. “Don’t fuckin’ say that. It was. It was real.”

“It was a lie. A fantasy,” you argued softly. It wasn’t cruel – just honest. “I’m not saying my feelings weren’t real. They were. But everything else? It would’ve collapsed. It was inevitable… like entropy. We were drifting from order to chaos. From warmth to cold.”

“You don’t know that,” Ben countered.

“Maybe not,” you admitted and looked at him again. “But it’s not just up to me. Not anymore.”

His brow furrowed. “What d’you mean?”

“It’s your life. You should make the decision,” you told him.

🚀 Read up to 4 chapters ahead on Patreon now

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He could hear everything that went on in a motel at 3AM: someone snoring next door, water dripping in a pipe somewhere, the vending machine outside coughing out a can, and a cat yowling by the dumpsters.

But what he focused on most was your breathing. Slow. Steady. Trusting.

You were out like a light. Leaned against him like he wasn’t a monster but just the comfiest pillow in the world.

Your cheek was warm against his bicep, lips softly parted. His arm had gone phantom numb a while ago where your head rested. Your hoodie was bunched up a little around your waist, baring patches of soft and taut skin to his eyes. Your jean shorts hugged your hips like a sin, one bare thigh pressed against his leg, the heat of you bleeding through his sweats.

Ben didn’t know how the fuck this happened. You’d crashed next to him on the creaky motel bed, all attitude and sarcasm one minute – and then you’d gone still.

He hadn’t dared to move since then. Couldn’t if he wanted to. Not even to breathe right.

The movie flared with machine gun fire and patriotic nonsense. A sharp boom shook you awake. You stirred, eyes fluttering as you blinked blearily at the screen.

“There she is. Welcome back to the land of the living.” He looked down at you and met your groggy eyes with a wide smirk. “You were droolin’ on me, sweetheart.”

“Shit. Sorry…” You sat up next to him, shifted just slightly to bring enough space between the two of you again.

Ben almost sighed at the loss.

“Is that… you?” Your gaze drifted back to the TV.

“Yeah, one of the old ones. It’s a classic,” he said, still smiling.

“Aren’t they all?” you retorted, voice still laced with sleep. “Still watching old movies of yourself, huh?”

“It’s called nostalgia.”

“It’s called narcissism,” you quipped with that same sharp tongue. “Is that a railgun?”

“Sure is.” Ben grinned smugly.

“You know, that’s not how electromagnetism works. You’d need a whole substation strapped to your spine,” you noted. “Where the hell would you store that much capacitor power? In your ass?”

Ben gave you an amused look, chuckling. “It’s a movie, Doc. Not a science fair. You get off on ruining dreams? Pretty sure it’s illegal to look that good and talk that nerdy.”

You rolled your eyes. “Flattery? Must be the forty-year dry spell talking.”

Ben laughed lowly. “Yeah? Care to end it? Could volunteer for science, Doc.”

You snorted, but Ben caught how you shifted on the mattress, how your eyes flicked briefly to his mouth. Unconscious, maybe, but still there.

“Careful,” you warned playfully. “I’ve got a thing for self-destructive men with god complexes.”

“Lucky for you, I’ve got both,” Ben drawled, spread his legs a little wider, kept his eyes trained on your lips.

And he saw it – the way your thighs pressed together slightly. Subtle, but sure as hell not invisible. Your body gave you away before your brain had caught up.

He knew the fucking signs. Knew them like the back of his hand. Knew what he had to say to get you all hot and bothered.

He deserved nice things, right?

“Wanna find out what else I could do with these hands besides holding a weapon, sweetheart?”

Your breath caught.

Bingo.

“Think about it.” Ben’s smirk deepened, voice low and coaxing, smooth as bourbon. “Haven’t been touched in decades. Haven’t tasted anyone in just as long. Think about how starved I am. How much I’d fuckin’ devour you.”

You didn’t respond, but your fingers twitched against the bedsheet. And Ben saw it – saw it all. Saw the little twitch in your muscles that held back the squirm. Saw the war playing out behind your eyes.

Fight or surrender.

“What? You’re gonna tell me that didn’t do anything for you?” His head cocked, brow lifting. “Because I’m pickin’ up a few signs, sweetheart.” His voice dropped another notch. “Little tension in your legs. That shift in your hips just now. Not exactly subtle.”

You looked down, as if trying to reset. But he wasn’t about to absolve you. He let the words hang in the air for a moment. Waited. Patience was a fucking virtue predators knew how to enjoy.

And then, his fingers stretched a little. Skimmed the bare skin on your thigh. Slow. Deliberate. Barely brushing.

You didn’t move but bit down on your lip – like a fish on a hook.

But then, to his surprise, your head tilted, your eyes dragged over him – speculative, curious, challenging – and a smirk curled.

“Oh, yeah? Wanna back that up or are you all… talk?”

Ben laughed it off. He’d just been teasing. Talking shit. He knew you wouldn’t go through with it. He enjoyed the foreplay nonetheless.

Still, he humored you. Wanted to see how far you’d go before backing down.

His hand slid over his thigh, patted it, fingers spread wide. He grinned – lazy, bold, certain. “Wanna find out? Right here’s the impact zone, sweetheart. You can calculate my thrust velocity.”

You’d done it once before. It was impressive – you and him. Actually made him wonder if he could break his old record now with super-everything.

Surely, right?

Your eyebrow arched – fucking smug. “Think you can handle me?”

Ben gave a slow, wicked grin. “Oh, I know I can.”

And certainly, he thought you would back out now. He’d done this dance with you before. But in an unexpected turn of events, you rose on your knees, crawled over, and straddled his thighs.

No hesitation. No asking. Just a smooth and taunting swing of your hips, and you settled in his lap like you fucking belonged there, hot against the worn cotton of his sweats.

And Ben? His dick twitched up immediately, thick and straining beneath the fabric, aching from how long it had fucking been. His hands caught your hips on instinct, rough and grounding.

Muscle fuckin’ memory.

“Not sure you’re ready,” you teased, warm breath brushing his ear. Hands pressed against his chest, then slowly slid up to his shoulders, locking around his neck.

“Dangerous game you’re playin’, sweetheart,” he rasped, eyes darkening. His fingers were already itching to pull you all the way. “You’re sittin’ on a loaded gun.”

There was the little smirk on your lips again. “Forty years, huh? Hope you’ve been saving up, soldier.”

His breath punched out of him in a low groan. His resolve broke. Hands gripped you hard and greedy, dragging you closer.

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, grazing your throat. Fucking inhaled you.

“You sure, sweetheart?” he growled, hands roaming your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “‘Cause you got no fuckin’ clue what you’re gettin’ into here, but I’m gonna make sure you feel it goddamn everywhere.”

“Yeah? Show me.” A slow smile formed on your lips, nose brushing his. Teasing. And then you rocked.

Just once.

And he saw fuckin’ stars.

That was all it took. His hand flew to the back of your head, tangled in your hair, mouth crashing against yours. His tongue claimed you – filthy, desperate, fucking hungry.

But your lips met his with a slow drag and lazy tongue strokes – teasing, daring, coaxing. Not rushed. Not frantic. You kissed him like you were memorizing him – like he was something worth savoring.

Your teeth tugged on his bottom lip till he growled. You rocked your hips forward again, a slow grind, dragging the heat of your pussy right over the thick bulge in his sweats.

“Shit, baby,” he hissed. “You sit in my lap like that, and I’m gonna fuck you like I own you.”

You moaned into his mouth when he pulled you down harder, one hand gripping your hip and helping you move, the other sliding beneath your hoodie to find bare skin.

Palmed at your waist, your ribs, the fucking softness of your tits.

He couldn’t believe he had you again. That you were moving on him like this – raw, aching need in every grind, every gasp.

“Feels like you missed this,” you teased breathlessly.

“Oh, sweetheart, you have no fuckin’ idea.”

Your pace got filthier – less teasing, more need. His cock strained hard against the sweats, precum soaking through the fabric, catching where your shorts rubbed down on him again and again and again.

He gripped your ass, rutting up into you. Chasing it. “Feel that, huh? How hard I am for you? That thick fuckin’ cock’s beggin’ for you. Forty years of waiting to be buried in that tight little pussy. Imma fuckin’ ruin you. Make you fuckin’ mine again, baby.”

You whimpered, pressing your chest to his. He kissed your neck, licked it, bit down hard, left a fucking mark on your skin.

He bucked up into you, losing rhythm. You chased it anyway — moaning, rocking, dragging your cunt over his cock like you needed it to breathe.

“F–Fuck, baby. Just like that,” he grunted, already twitching under you. “Fuck yeah, rub that pussy all over me. Make a fuckin’ mess, sweetheart.”

You rolled your hips in sharp little circles, moaning salaciously into his neck. He was fucking addicted to the obscenity. To the fucking sounds he was drawing from you.

His fingers tugged impatiently at the hem of your hoodie. “Off,” he growled. “Or I’ll fuckin’ rip it. Need to see those tits, baby. Been too fuckin’ long.”

You pulled your hoodie off in one swift motion.

No fuckin’ bra. Just glorious tits how he remembered them.

“Fuck, baby, still so fuckin’ perfect,” he murmured against your ribs like he was worshipping at a fucking altar.

He latched onto your breast, mouth sucking your nipple between his teeth, groaning like he’d gone a lifetime without the taste. You gasped, arched into him, rubbing your clit against the ridged shape of him.

“Fuck–… Need you–” you panted.

“You have me, baby,” he rasped between bite marks on your skin, loving how they fucking stayed. “You always fuckin’ had me.”

He shoved a hand between your bodies, past your waistband, dragged his thick fingers through your slick, groaned when it trickled and drenched his fucking hand.

“Look at you, sweetheart. Already such a fuckin’ mess. Already so fuckin’ soaked for me from just a little grinding, huh?” he muttered, rough thumb working your clit. “Fuckin’ knew it. Fuck–… That’s my girl.”

“Fuck me, please,” you whimpered.

And then, fabric ripped. He didn’t care, just tore your shorts off and left you bare in front of him. He shoved down his sweats, just enough to free himself, cock springing against his stomach.

Hard. Thick. Flushed dark with need and fuckin’ twitching.

You gasped when the blunt head rubbed against your slit. He slid through your folds, coating himself – teasing, smug, and fucking wrecked.

“You want it?” he asked. Low. Raspy. Dangerous. “Fuckin’ say it.”

“Please.”

He grinned like the fucking devil. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

He thrust up hard – one stroke, all the way in. You cried out when his dickhead slammed against your cervix, nails digging into his shoulders. He’d split you open and sealed the wound in one go.

Tight. Wet. Hot.

Just like he fucking remembered. And you? You rode him like you’d done it before. Like you’d missed it. Like it was fucking yours.

“That’s it, baby. Fucking Christ, just like that,” he praised, head dropping back with a rough moan. His hands guided you, eyes watching as you squeezed him just right and got off on the upstroke. “Take it. Take every fuckin’ inch like I know you can. Fuck–… Be my fuckin’ hero, sweetheart. Ride it–… ride your cock.”

The rhythm was brutal, desperate, punishing. Years of deprivation behind every snap of his hips. The whole bed creaked like it might collapse. You were moaning – open, loud, messy. Like you didn’t care this whole dump could hear you getting ruined on his cock.

The sound of your voice fucking shattered him.

“Faster, baby,” you begged breathlessly.

He gave it to you. Gripped your ass – rough and bruising – and started fucking up into you like he meant to breed you.

“Feel that fuckin’ stretch, baby? Feel how fuckin’ deep I am inside this pussy. God, shit, still so fuckin’ tight,” he choked on a moan. “Been dreamin’ of this pussy… Fuck, been dyin’ to be inside you again–”

You gasped, writhing against him, clenching around him, thighs flexing, chasing that high. But then: “Fuck, Soldier Boy.”

Ben stopped. Stiffened. His hands went slack around you.

You were still moving, still kissing him, still breathless in his lap. But for him? The moment cracked open like ice underfoot.

A hand cupped your cheek, tried to force you to look at him, but you didn’t.

“Fuck, baby. Just look at me. It’s me. It’s Ben,” his voice tried to reach you, but you were too far gone. “It’s Ben, baby. Please, just–… just look at me. Just fuckin’ remember me.”

Thud–thud–THUD!

Three heavy pounds rattled not only the door but also him awake. Ben jolted up, chest heaving, weary green eyes blinking around the room

Daylight. TV off. Your spot next to him empty. Cold.

And Ben? Fully clothed and painfully hard as a rock.

Ah, shit. Rough mornin’. Wet dream turned fuckin’ nightmare.

He couldn’t have fucking nice things for once, could he?

And in a sick twist, you groaned “Coming!” from the bathroom and stormed toward the door, pulling a hoodie overhead as you went. Didn’t care that he was right there and seeing you half-naked – a fucking stranger.

Yeah, Ben would put a fucking stop to this once you were his again. What happened to goddamn modesty? But hey, at least it was long enough for him to peek: bra, dark navy blue, and a lot of delicate lace around those beautiful tits.

He’d love to tear that thing off of you.

The asshole then brought presents: a happy hero meal and some fuckin’ drugs – the hard, good shit. He tossed it like Ben was a shelter dog that had bitten too many people and was soon gonna be put down. And you, on the other hand, got some translated folder and a gigantic cup of frap-somethin’ with an obnoxious amount of whipped cream and caramel.

But you’d always had a sweet tooth, so it didn’t come as much as a surprise. What fucking killed him, though?

You pulling out the fuckin’ straw and going to town on it, tongue licking cream like it’d never done anything else.

Ben almost blew his load and a gasket in the fuckin’ Geiger counter, wanting to throw the damn thing out the window.

Rough fuckin’ morning… And it had only been the first goddamn day of many.

At least, he had some Bennies to get over the pain above (and the ache below) – well… until you fucking ruined that, too.

Because you watched him. Sitting on the bed, cross-legged, sipping coffee and still working that damn straw. Eyes on him.

His back was half-turned, but he still caught it in his periphery as he was halfway through crushing pills to dust with his knife.

Judging.

“Problem, sweetheart?” His voice was a little too gruff, a little too deep, a little too defensive. Too confrontational.

“No,” you replied, bored. Almost deadpan. Then you casually opened the folder in your lap, directed your gaze there, took a slurp of coffee through the straw, and added: “My parents always snorted their breakfast, too.”

Then, you gave a shrug of your shoulders and started reading – innocent. Like you hadn’t just launched him into complete chaos.

You liked teaching people lessons, alright. You also liked fucking with them. On purpose.

This was the goddamn problem with smart women – especially if they fucking knew it, too. They knew exactly where to hit and make it stick.

But Ben couldn’t help the little smirk twitching on his lips – almost proud.

Back then, your brilliance and genius was cute – not threatening. Now, though? With all you could do? All that power wrapped inside one tiny girl? A little scary.

Dangerous.

And well, he was a little dangerous, too. You and him had always made a good team in the past. Now, the two of you could be unstoppable.

He just had to ensure you stayed in your fucking lane – and he didn’t mean that in a bad way. Just… rein you in a little – like taming a fucking wild horse.

His gaze flicked briefly back to you. You were watching him again, subtly, your eyes not on the knife but the tremble in his hands. The way he ground his jaw a little too tight.

Fuck. He’d forgotten about your shitty parents.

Did you have a fucking problem with this? Probably, if your parents were fucking junkies, right? And here he sat, supposed hero turned nuclear weapon and addict. He felt a little ounce of shame curling in his gut.

And still, he felt his blood itching for it more. But he couldn’t do this with you here. Couldn’t do it with you watching.

“You know, all this tension could be solved if you just went and made us breakfast, doll. Maybe put on a skirt and apron, smile a little. That’s what you broads were built for, right?”

The room went silent.

Your jaw dropped slightly, eyebrows lifting. But then you ground your teeth and a fire flickered alive in your eyes.

“Jesus,” String Bean breathed, eyes wide.

Ben knew where to hit. Knew how to weaponize what he knew about you to get rid of you – or so he thought.

But you only scoffed in amusement and rolled your eyes before delivering your punch: “God, it’s like you’ve been alive for a hundred years only to make cavemen look evolved.”

Then you got up from the bed and strolled over to Butcher, ignoring Ben like he didn’t exist anymore.

“I’m taking a break,” you announced and puffed your chest out, shoulders straight. “And I want vacation days, Butcher. I know you’re technically blackmailing me, but I still think I have at least basic labor rights. MM and that CIA lady gave me forms to sign, so I know I’m employed somewhere.”

Ben straightened slightly at that. Blackmail? What the hell did that fucking mean? That asshole better not be threatening you, or Ben would punch that dick to goddamn Uranus.

Butcher sighed – loudly. “Jesus fuck, sunshine, how ‘bout we talk when the job’s done, alright?”

But you didn’t back off – not even a little. Ben listened in amusement. Didn’t dare to look fully and give anyone the impression that he actually cared about this little spat, but he still enjoyed it greatly – enjoyed the fucking destructive wildfire you were.

“After this job’s done, I’m not gonna stick around, so you better figure it out now,” you bit, all flames and heat. Then you held open your palm – waiting, demanding. “Give me your car keys. I wanna go see Kimiko and check on Frenchie.”

Butcher scoffed in response and met your challenging gaze. “The hell you are.”

Oof. Wrong move.

“What d’you think you’re doing? You know I can just freeze your ass and take them,” you said and raised your open palm a little higher. “Give.”

Butcher met you head-on. “Try. You don’t even know where I hid ‘em.”

“I don’t care if you shoved them up Hughie’s ass. Still gonna dive in and find them,” you retorted.

“Whoa, uh, just like to clarify – he did not… shove anything up my ass,” the kid muttered nervously, blinking at you with those pleading puppy dog eyes.

Ben almost snorted out loud into his soda.

Butcher groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes back like he’d been dealing with enough sassy employees for a week. He then hauled out a jingling set of his keys from his pocket and placed them in your palm.

You grinned, triumphant and satisfied. Ben wanted to kiss you stupid for it.

“Don’t fuckin’ take too long,” Butcher growled.

“I’ll take as long as I want,” you called back, already out the door as it fell shut behind you.

Ben’s eyes flicked to the messy white lines in front of him, then back to the door. He felt torn. Torn between relief and worry.

Because now you were out there – alone, unprotected, and out of his sight. What if you fucking disappeared again?

He didn’t like that thought at all. He had to keep an eye on you – keep you close.

“Where’s she off to?” he asked, drawing the asshole’s attention to him.

“Hospital,” Butcher replied curtly.

“She’s, uh, visiting a friend of ours,” the kid added helpfully, earning him a raised look from his boss.

“What’s this talk about blackmail?” Ben asked with a casualness only he could feign, snorting his first line.

“Insurance policy.” The asshole smirked. “Don’t worry about ‘er, mate. Guarantee she won’t be a problem.”

“Good.” Ben matched his smile while imagining ripping the guy’s throat out with his teeth.

No one got to fucking threaten you and live to tell the tale. For now, though, Butcher was useful in keeping you close, but he’d surely made it onto Ben’s hit list with that little stunt.

The asshole’s smirk widened then. “Let’s get to business, shall we?”

After striking his little deal, Butcher eventually went to hunt down the first names on his list and left Ben alone with the kid as his babysitter – like that would actually help if he blew.

Luckily, you came back about three agonizing hours later – made fun of his movie that was playing on TV while plopping down on the worn couch next to the kid.

Not next to him. Not like the two of you were closer. Not like you hadn’t already shared every part of you with him.

Drove him and the Geiger counter fuckin’ nuts.

On top of that, you and String Bean were annoying the shit out of him with questions, with your judgment, with your fucking righteousness – like you kids could actually understand what was on the fucking line here.

Ben was trying to protect you. He loved you. And you? You fucking forgot about him.

At least, Butcher then came back with good news – the location of the fucking twins.

Ben suited up in the bathroom, walked out, and found the two idiots shooting something up their veins while you tied your shoes casually on the bed next to them like it was just another fucking Tuesday.

He smelled the Compound V instantly – but different. Green. Didn’t look like Vought was even pretending to hide the poison under false advertising anymore.

Ben then glanced at you – same black sneakers, jean shorts, and a new black hoodie that read: “May the mass times acceleration be with you.”

Christ on a cross….

Star Wars? Fuckin’ seriously? God, you were a bigger nerd than he ever thought.

“That what you wearin’, sweetheart? Where’s your fucking suit?” Ben asked, eyeing you sideways.

You tilted your head, amused, gaze grazing him from head to toe. Then you snorted a laugh. “Yeah, I’m not gonna be caught dead in something like that,” you replied and then grinned, gesturing down your outfit. “‘Sides, this is my armor. I’m not a sparkly unicorn that shits rainbow glitter. Don’t need a lot. Got my onyx slippers.” You clicked your heels. “They used to be red. You know, like ruby slippers? But I switched to black after I lost part of my abilities. Figured it was more appropriate ‘cause, you know… I’m in mourning.”

Jesus fuck. You were not built for fucking battle. Now, Ben was even more reluctant to drag you into this – Herogasm of all things. Not exactly a place he ever imagined you in the middle of.

Ben’s eyes drifted to Butcher, chin nodding toward you. “Can she fuckin’ stay here?”

“No can do, guv. House full of supes? We’re gonna need ‘er,” Butcher replied. “Just try to get along, yeah?”

You smirked winningly and brushed purposely past Ben. He almost pushed you against the nearest wall.

“Don’t worry, gramps. I won’t bite as much,” you said, grinning. “All I need is for someone to be distracted for a second while they read what’s across my tits.”

Ben made the mistake and looked down at the white lettering again, and suddenly, in the next blink of his eyes, you were on the other side of him, smirking wide.

“See?”

God, this was gonna be fuckin’ annoying, wasn’t it?

Ben gave you an impatient and tight smile, unamused. “Cute lil party trick, sweetheart. Don’t fuckin’ do that again,” he warned but kept his voice calm – almost playful. Still, he didn’t want you to get any fucking ideas. “You at least got a fuckin’ supe name?”

You grinned then – cocky, bold, and mischievous. “Puck.”

Ben’s brow furrowed. “Like hockey?”

“Like Shakespeare, you bardless brute,” you retorted your correction. “If you’re not careful, I’ll turn your head into an ass as well – a real one, not a donkey.”

Ben’s lips twitched with a challenging smirk. “Well, if you pardon, we will mend.”

Ooooh... Your fuckin’ face was glorious. Your brows drew together, you stumped so much your shoulders actually flinched an inch backward, and your head tilted the other way.

You were fuckin’ impressed now, weren’t you?

“Huh. Who knew you actually know more than godawful action movies,” you muttered.

“Impressed? Who’s a fuckin’ bardless brute now, huh?” Ben retorted smugly.

He still fucking was. Only reason he knew that line was because his English teacher once made him participate in a play of Midsummer Night’s Dream to save himself from a failing grade. But hey, he loved acting and it had been easier than writing a fucking essay.

He’d gotten a standing fucking ovation, too. Of course he had.

But the look in your eyes? Fuckin’ worth dragging that out from the cobwebbed corners of his mind.

After more curious questions from you about his Shakespearean knowledge, came a four-hour car ride to Vermont (or hell), where he had to share a backseat with you.

And you, you fucking menace?

You leaned your back against the door, stretched your legs across the seat, and rested your bare feet on his thigh.

No asking. No hesitation. Just did. Didn’t even look up once.

And Ben? He was strung taut like a wire the whole ride. Tried not to twitch pathetically. Tried not to outright beg for you to touch his dick with your goddamn pinky toe.

He tried to keep his mind occupied instead. Solve this fucking problem, so you could actually touch him. And that was when he noticed it – you touched him.

Not just now, but back at the motel, too. Since the minute you and him first spoke at the trailer, actually. Sure, you kept your distance – but mostly because you didn’t like him. Not because you were scared of him.

This whole time, you hadn’t cared about close proximity at all. You didn’t seem terrified of him even a little – which was fucking frightening for different reasons entirely.

When they finally arrived at their location, Ben then decided to test that little theory in action as he stalked through the mansion with you.

He’d told you to stay in his fucking eye-line, pretended it was for the sole reason he didn’t want you to pull a stunt on him again and freeze him. But in reality, he was protecting you – and making sure those little perverts better kept their clammy hands by their sides.

His experiment, however, came to full fruition then. First test: gently putting his hand between your shoulder blades as he guided you through the house. Second test: letting it rest briefly on the small of your back. Neither of them yielded a fuckin’ reaction.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t scowl. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t give a single fuck.

But Ben remembered the way you’d jumped like he’d burned you whenever he’d done it in the past.

So, what the hell happened between then and now? Or, well, now and some arbitrary date in the future, he supposed.

“God, I can’t believe you founded this depravity,” you muttered, nose and brows scrunched as your eyes drifted around, barely being able to decide which abomination to judge first.

Fuckin’ adorable.

“Whoa, hey, just to fuckin’ clarify – I didn’t found–” his gaze flicked around, tongue poking out between his teeth as he searched for the right words, “–well, whatever the hell this freak show is. You know, back in the day, this used to be a classy gig. Yeah…” A smirk crawled across his face at the memory. You would’ve loved it – not that he would’ve fucking shared you with anyone. “Cigars, bourbon, even had a flag bikini contest to boost morale. Think, a gentlemen’s club for the Rat Pack.”

You would’ve fucking won that damn bikini contest.

“Lovely.” You gave him a deadpan look, arms folded tightly over those tits underneath that baggy hoodie like you were trying to keep the slime of this place away from you. Your gaze then swerved off to a threesome on the kitchen counter, brow wrinkling even more.

Ben followed it, smirk deepening. “You know, sweetheart, I bet you could bend that way, too.”

Your head snapped toward him, eyes dark at first, then twinkling with amusement.

“What, don’t believe me?” he teased. “I’ll kick these amateurs outta one of those bedrooms and happily show you.”

You raised a brow. “There’s about twenty naked women around you. Why are you hitting on the one girl in clothes?”

“I like a fuckin’ challenge.” He grinned, lazy and smug. “‘Sides, I have an acquired taste.”

You snorted a laugh. “Well, take me off the menu, please.”

Not a fuckin’ chance…

“C’mon,” you motioned toward the living room area, “Butcher said the twins are back there.”

Ben nodded, smirk fading, and stuck close by your side.

“You want me to freeze them?” you asked, shooting him a glance. You bumped into him slightly when you dodged a couple fucking against the wall of the hallway. “I could only freeze their bodies, you know? Keep the heads. That way they can’t run, but they can still talk. They also feel it when you kill them… ‘Sides, it’s kinda funny. People get really panicky and freak out when I do that.”

Ben stopped in his tracks, blinking at you for a moment. He watched a small smirk flash across your lips – puckish.

Made his goddamn heart swell and his dick hard.

He hummed and considered it, then gave barely a shrug of one shoulder. “That does sound kinda funny. Knock yourself out, sweetheart.”

Good team work. Unstoppable force.

As he moved half a step toward the living room, you stopped him, though – hand wrapping around his wrist, pulling him gently back, touching him.

“Wait–”

You dropped it and flinched back when he met your eyes, probably confusing his prayer for a warning. You just couldn’t see it.

“You’re not gonna–… you know, power up the nuclear reactor in here, right?”

Ben met your request with a tired stare and a deep exhale through his nose. You might have judged these perverts, but you were still worried about their safety, apparently.

Fucking Christ, your generation was nutty. Not exactly how men won wars.

“No,” he assured you nevertheless. “Don’t worry about it. I can dent their teeth in with my fuckin’ pinky.”

Your lips pursed for a second before forcing a tight smile. You gave him a nod and a thumbs up. “Great.”

Yeah, you didn’t belong onto a battlefield but into Lecture Hall B of some ivy-wrapped university. This was the fucking last mission he’d ever take you on (and if only it had been as easy and simple as wishful thinking).

And the rest of the day? Fuckin’ disaster.

The twins went according to plan till they didn’t. You froze them, they panicked (which really was satisfyingly hilarious), and the two idiots leaked more than the poop chute on the screen behind them. But then, he fucking heard it – that sound.

That song.

He didn’t remember much after. Just that melody, you backing away next to him, eyes wide, asking him what was wrong, and him telling you to run.

He woke up to wreckage and smoke. There was barely a house or people left – at least not ones that could still be recognized as such. When you weren’t anywhere in his close vicinity, he felt relief surge through him – before the panic kicked in.

Where the fuck were you?

But Ben didn’t get enough time to look for you before the next problem arrived – the caped cunt Butcher wanted dead.

Fuckin’ ridiculous, honestly. A clown, really. But that strength?

Yeah. Shit…

Took him, Butcher, and a butt-naked String Bean to hold the pussy down. Still didn’t get to kill him. The coward fled.

Ben then followed Butcher and Hughie – slowly, unhurried, calm. Not like he wanted to run around and scream your fucking name till you answered.

Outside, Ben then finally spotted you – sitting by the curb, blood running down your cheek from a small head wound. The glare and sharp mouth were apparently alive, too.

“You good?” Ben came to stand next to you, looking down, fingers twitching by his sides to reach out and wipe the blood from your cheek, legs itching to crouch down and check on you properly.

“Yeah.” You gave a nod and met his gaze, bringing a flat palm up to shield your eyes from the setting sun behind him. Your brow then wrinkled again. “Are you okay? You look like you’re in pain… or constipated.”

“‘M fine,” Ben replied with a huff. “Your powers? Still working?”

Your finger pointed behind his right, and he followed it, finding a half-burning supe frozen still – including the little flame on his arm.

Thank fucking God.

“Does that answer your question?” you asked as the man resumed screaming and running down the road in a panic.

Ben nodded, hesitated for a moment, but then held his hand out to you. You looked reluctantly at it for a second before you placed your palm in his, and he helped you back onto your feet.

He hated letting it go again.

“How d’you get out?”

“Well, I–… I couldn’t freeze shit,” you explained, slightly irritated, your eyes watching him closely again. “But I could at least put it in slo-mo long enough to get the fuck out.”

Good girl.

“Was that Homelander in there?” you asked, looking warily up at him.

Ben glanced at the burning mansion, then back at you. “Yeah,” he replied, deep voice raspy. “He know who you are?”

You blinked at him but shook your head slowly, shrugging. “No, I–… I don’t think so.”

“Good.” Ben gave a nod. “Keep it that way.”

You didn’t ask him what exactly happened or what he meant by that, although he could tell it was on the tip of your tongue the whole car ride back.

Legend’s mansion reeked of old whiskey, ghosts of cocaine, and broken promises – but still fucking better than that shitty motel off the highway.

Ben hadn’t left a lot of room for discussion with Butcher when he told the asshole about his idea to knock on his old friend’s door and hide out here from the public. After forty years, he deserved a little luxury and a king-sized bed without creaking springs.

The sun had dipped below the horizon hours ago, but the house still held its burn when Ben strolled through it. Everyone had retreated to their corners, licking their wounds, but he could hear your heartbeat from the hallway.

That little rhythm, steady but tight. Anxious. He’d memorized it. Could pick it out of a crowd by now.

The lights were dimmed, only a small lamp on a side table held an orange glow while the rest of the room was lit by the flickering blue hues of the TV. You sat alone on the couch, tucked into cushions, barefoot, remote in hand, and eyes tiredly fixed on the screen, watching the late-night news. You were curled into the corner with a blanket haphazardly tossed over your lap as Ben poured himself a glass of forty-year-old Glenfiddich at the bar before flopping down next to you with a grunt, ice clinking in the tumbler – most certainly uninvited.

You didn’t glance at him, just kept your eyes trained on the TV like it might give you answers the rest of the world couldn’t.

Ben didn’t say anything as he lit a joint and leaned back against the couch with a long, exhaustive breath. He stayed like this for a while – no words, no touches, just your presence. He needed that, especially after today.

He hated that he couldn’t claim all of it. That this – the two-feet distance at all times, your scent and warmth but nothing else – had to be enough.

“Clothes good?” you asked suddenly, voice low and soft as not to disturb the silence of the house too much.

When you’d returned from the hospital this morning, you’d also brought a bag of clothes for him that you’d gotten during a pit-stop on your way back to the motel. No one had asked you to – you’d gone out of your way to do it, anyway.

Nothing fancy. Nothing too modern. Just a few simple and plain tees, a comfier pair of sweats, and jeans. Didn’t ask, just did – with a smirk and the explanation that Butcher had left his credit card in the car.

Ben looked at you briefly from the corner of his eye before staring down at the black shirt and gray sweats he was wearing.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough, and added a mumbled “thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied with an almost inaudible sigh and turned your focus back to the TV.

News anchors, wide-eyed, grim, and breathless, recited the carnage like it was a weather report. Fires. Body bags. Death toll still rising. No comment from Vought yet.

“Hell of a show, huh?” he broke the silence with a low chuckle like it was just another night – like he hadn’t incinerated a house full of people. He took a sip of his drink and a drag from his reefer, lazily blowing out the thin stream of smoke. “Should charge admission next time.”

“Not funny,” you muttered.

Ben gave a grunt, rolled his eyes slightly. He knew you weren’t happy with him – neither was he, but it hit different when it came from you.

Green eyes flicked back to the screen with another sip of his drink. “Too bad Earving wasn’t there.”

Your head snapped toward him, brow raised in question. “Earving?”

“Black Noir.”

“Oh.” You sunk back down into the cushions. “Weird hearing real names. Makes you sound like people.”

That was a jab, right? Some fucking guilt trip? He wasn’t imagining that, but he let it slide. Couldn’t really blame you for it after today.

“We are people – you included, sweetheart,” Ben retorted nonetheless and took another hit of his joint – a fucking long one. He looked at you for a second, trying to figure out a way to bridge the gap between you two. “My name’s Ben, by the way.”

Your gaze met his, and for a moment, Ben thought you’d finally remember him. Braced himself for it. But whatever you were searching for in his eyes, couldn’t be found.

You turned back to the screen somberly. “Think I’ll stick to Soldier Boy. Suits you better.”

Ouch.

“C’mon, loosen up,” he scoffed. “Not like you actually liked any of these assholes.”

“That’s not the point,” you argued, sitting up straighter like you were getting ready for a fight. “Just because I might think they’re awful people, doesn’t mean I wanna see them burn alive. I mean, Jesus Christ… They didn’t deserve that.”

Ben leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Sure they did.”

And then you went quiet. Thoughtful. The creases in your brow ironed out. Your head tilted ever-so slightly. And Ben knew what that look meant – that fucking softness.

He hated it. Hated that you were soft. Even now.

“What happened today?” you asked with that gleam of quiet concern in your eyes like he was a wounded Grizzly with rabies that wandered into your yard and could be fixed with a bowl of water.

“Nothin’,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on the TV, though he wasn’t watching. “Twins pissed me off and I put ‘em in the dirt. They were goddamn traitors. Handed me over to the Reds. All I did was return the fuckin’ favor.”

You leaned forward on your knees, your stare intensifying as you shook your head. “No, I don’t buy it. This wasn’t planned. I don’t believe you wanted to hurt all these people.”

“Believe it.”

“When I asked you today, you said you wouldn’t–”

“Yeah, well, I say a lotta things. Doesn’t make ‘em true,” he said with casual cruelty, but he had to stop you from fucking prodding – from finding the truth. “Just said what you wanted to hear, so you get off my fucking back, sweetheart.”

“You’re lying.”

That hit deep. Not because it was true – but because you saw right fucking through him. Saw right through the lies, the walls, the mask.

“I was right next to you when it happened,” you added. Same persistence, same fire in your eyes he knew so well. “You told Hughie and me you blacked out during Midtown. You said you didn’t wanna hurt those people.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then how did nineteen people end up dead? Not supes, people,” you prompted and waited long enough to let the silence stretch. “You can’t control it, can you?”

“I can,” he growled with a stern look. "Back off. Not gonna warn you twice."

“But you can’t every time, right?”

You were always like this – soft voice, soft hands, soft eyes – but never weak. Never stupid. It made you harder to lie to. Harder to brush off.

He didn’t respond. He knew where this conversation was headed, and he wasn’t fucking doing it.

He wasn’t gonna talk about Russia. Ever. Not with you.

That part of him – the dark, twitching, screaming core of what they did to him – it wasn’t something he knew how to name, let alone share. And you… you were the last person he wanted to share it with.

Because if you saw the truth – the shaking hands, the blackouts, the Russian lullabies that burrow into his skull and flip the fucking switch – you’d flinch. Or worse, you’d pity him.

And he couldn’t fucking take that.

If you knew about the restraints, the isolation, the endlessly cruel tests, you wouldn’t look at him the same. Not like someone who was strong, but someone who was broken.

One wrong melody away from burning down a neighborhood.

And you? You’d try to fix him. You always had. Even before the shield, before the name, back when he was still just a young, dumb kid, you looked at him like he could be more. But now he was something else – warped and weaponized by Vought, cracked open and rebuilt in a Russian lab, and every inch of him screamed 'Don’t touch this.'

But if you saw it – if you saw him – you’d reach for him. You’d say something soft. You’d try to make it better.

And he couldn’t fucking afford that right now. Not when he didn’t know what was even going on yet.

“Look, if you wanna talk about it–” you started, but he cut you off quickly.

“I don’t.”

“I–… I saw what happened to you, okay? Parts of it,” you said carefully. His eyes snapped to you. He heard your heartbeat accelerate. You then averted your gaze to your fumbling fingers in your lap. “Not in my head, by the way. I just wanted you to know I wouldn’t do that,” you clarified, swallowing. “But we-, uh, we found tapes when we got you outta there.”

Ben closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Don’t.”

“I’m not here to poke at your scars. I just wanna understand. That’s all,” you said.

“You want to understand,” he repeated and scoffed a mocking chuckle, rubbing his eyes. “Right. You want me to lay my head into your lap and cry about it? Light a candle, do a feelings circle, and sing ‘Kumbaya’?”

You shot him a look. Not amused. “You don’t have to joke your way out of everything.”

“Alright, you want the play-by-play, sweetheart?” he baited you, eyes narrowing. “You want me to walk you through how I turned a house full of assholes into bone confetti? Or do you just want a hug and a sob story about how I’m soooo broken inside?” Then he leaned in, arm resting on the back of the couch behind you, smirk dancing on his lips. Cold. Venomous. Cruel. “You ever stop to think maybe I wanted to kill ‘em? Maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe I fucking liked it. Hm?”

That made you stop short for a second, but the fire in your eyes never went anywhere. The flames only rose higher.

“Then why did you save me?”

Shit.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, sipping his whiskey.

“No, you did,” you insisted and were getting a little more heated. “Don’t you dare fucking gaslight me. You told me to run. You looked fucking terrified, and it wasn’t because of the twins.”

“Shut up,” he huffed dismissively.

“It was the song, wasn’t it? There was a Russian song that came on the radio. It triggered you, didn’t it?”

“Stop,” he warned, but you were a full wildfire now – all heat and no escape.

“Look, I know what it’s like when you’re not in control. I get why you’re so fucking angry. Trust me. But you’re gonna hurt more people if you don’t face your shit,” you argued fiercely. Brave. Foolish.

“You wanna help me? That it, sweetheart?” He scoffed coldly into his tumbler. “I don’t need your fucking pity, and I sure as hell don’t need you to fuckin’ fix me.”

“I never–”

“No, but you’re thinking it. I can see it,” he cut it, taunting. “Poor Soldier Boy, all alone. Must’ve been so hard, right? Frozen in a box, tortured, abandoned, boo-fucking-hoo.”

“That is hard,” you countered – still fearless, still soft, still all you. “And I know you’re clearly not asking for my opinion, but you should know I don’t think you’re broken or weak because of it. I think it made you stronger.”

And that was the worst of it – you meant it. You fucking cared. You looked at him like he was still something worth saving. Like he hadn’t just taken out half a goddamn mansion. Like his hands weren’t still stained with blood. Like you hadn’t seen the monster and decided not to run.

“Damn right it did,” he snapped and fixed you with a glare. “You think I want to be soft and bleeding and weak like you? You think because you’ve got some tragic backstory of your own, we’re the fucking same? You and me? Not the same species, sweetheart. You’re not special. You’re not different. You’re just a little girl playing hero in a world full of wolves. You’re soft. You still believe people can come back from the edge. But I jumped off that cliff a long fucking time ago. So don’t look at me like I’m something you can save.”

You inhaled sharply, but still didn’t back down. “I know you’re not the cold asshole you’re pretending to be.”

“You wanna know what Russia did to me? What they did? Little scientists like you, hm?” Ben goaded. “They tore me apart. Nerve by nerve. Memory by memory. I begged them to stop. I screamed. I cried. I pissed myself. That what you wanna hear?”

“No,” you said, getting up from the couch. “I’m just trying to help you.”

He hated the look on your face. Hated himself for putting it there.

Ben rose as well, towering over you. Cold. “I didn’t fuckin’ ask for it. Wanna know why? ‘Cause, most of all, those forty years in that shithole gave me fuckin’ clarity. Made me realize I don’t need people. I don’t need kindness. I don’t need you. I wanna burn every last thing that tried to take me down to the fucking ground. You think I regret what happened today? I relished it.”

“Liar,” you bit. “I know you didn’t.”

And God, he hated you for it. Hated you for giving him fucking hope.

“That’s because you’re still stupid enough to think there’s fuckin’ good in people,” Ben retorted. “You think you know me? You don’t know shit. Let me make it real fuckin’ clear – whatever you’re looking for? It’s not there.”

He wouldn’t let you get into his fucking head again.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said and took a fucking step closer.

Jesus fuck, why did you always have to do this?

“You think because I let you sit next to me, you’re safe? Maybe you’re even dumb enough to think I like you,” Ben growled, stepping into your space – and you still didn’t even bat a fucking eyelash. “But trust me, if I go off again, you’ll be the first to fry. And I won’t lose any fuckin’ sleep over it, sweetheart.”

There it was – silence. Finally. But in the end, you still didn’t move.

Instead, you scoffed a chuckle and looked him deeply into his eyes – cruel in your mercy. Puckish in your execution. “I think I know now.”

“Know what?” he huffed, impatient.

“Why they came for you. Your team.” You smiled, soft and slow and pitying. “You don’t want kindness? Too bad, you’re getting mine: you might be an ass, but I still think you deserved better.”

Fuck you for saying that.

Then you were done. Shoved past him and left for your room. The door slammed so hard it shook the glass in the windows.

And then it rattled him.

That look you gave him – like you weren’t sure he was a monster or not, like you didn’t know if you could trust him – he’d seen it before.

It all fell into fucking place then and there.

An hour later, Ben knocked on your door.

His heart pounded, he ran a hand over his face, and he thought twice about turning around and storming back down the hall to his room. But he needed fucking answers now.

After a moment, he heard your voice from the other side, guarded. “Yeah?”

“Can I come in?” Ben asked, trying to keep his tone light. He didn’t really have a plan beyond that – just needed to get in there and talk.

There was a long pause. Longer than he liked. But finally, you sighed, and he heard the soft sound of you getting up from the bed. The door clicked open a moment later.

No welcoming smile. No warmth. No trust.

“What d’you want?” you prompted with a blank expression and crossed your arms, head tilted. Watching. Waiting. Judging.

Ben hauled something from the pocket of his sweats and held it up for you – cross joint. “Truce?”

Your lips pursed, which meant that you at least weren’t unimpressed. “First one?”

“Yup.”

First successful one. Fourteenth try overall – harder than it fucking looked when you’d done it.

Your head bobbed thoughtfully for a moment before you stepped aside to let him in. He shut the door behind him with more care than he’d normally bother with.

Ben rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

“Didn’t think you’d actually ask,” you shot back wryly.

He clicked his tongue. “Fair enough.”

“So, what? You’re here to apologize?”

Ben bit the inside of his cheek. “Look, I don’t do fuckin’ apologies, okay? I know I can be a little… direct sometimes, but that’s your problem. Not mine.”

You snorted a chuckle. “Wow. Okay…” You cleared your throat like you were coughing the amusement out of your system.

He knew you hated that, but he had to walk a fine line between getting the information he needed and not ruining it with you by being too… friendly.

With a deep groan, Ben dropped down on an armchair in the corner by the large, floor-to-ceiling window front. Legend had given you the guest bedroom on the ground floor with the terrace that led to the garden – aka one giant entry point for all his enemies.

He’d have to talk to the old guy tomorrow about changing that. Get you bumped up to the first floor, maybe a windowless room.

He was kidding. A little.

“Listen, I’m not great at the whole... people thing,” Ben started with a dry laugh.

“No shit.”

“I just wanna talk, alright? I try not to be a dick again. How’s that?”

You considered it, then gave a nod. “Fine. What do you wanna talk about?”

Ben licked his lips, searching for the right words that didn’t give away too much. “Out there, you said you get it – what it’s like not to be in control. What did you mean by that? Is that why half your abilities ain’t working?”

The question seemed to surprise you.

“Uhm, yeah,” you replied after some hesitation. “Three years ago, I started getting panic attacks – not that I’m saying that’s what happens to you.”

“You better not,” he muttered from his chair.

“Anyways,” you continued, trying to tame your fire a little – he could tell and tried not to smirk. “It happened after I got stuck.”

“That Middle Ages thing?” Ben questioned, cocking his head slightly. A laugh then rumbled through his chest. “What the hell happened, sweetheart? You almost got burned on the stake for bein’ a witch?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what happened,” you replied, almost too casual.

“Oh.” He stumped for a moment, then finally lit the joint. “Well, shit. Why d’you go there in the first place? I mean, no offense, doll, kinda common knowledge they’re known as the Dark Ages.”

“I didn’t go there on purpose,” you said, laughing a little as he passed you the reefer. “I just-… Took the wrong exit and… couldn’t go back in there.”

Ben exhaled a sigh through his nose. This was gonna take longer than he expected, wasn’t it?

“In where?”

He mostly couldn’t believe he was having this conversation and it wasn’t about where to put his cock.

“Wormholes.”

Not better.

Ben’s brow creased a little more. Another sigh left his lips. “What’s that?”

You arched an eyebrow. “You want me to explain wormholes to you?”

Ben stared at you for a moment, took a drag from his joint, and then shrugged. “Sure.”

Your lips pursed, but your head nodded. “Uh, okay. Yeah.”

Ben then watched you pace the room, kick your shoes off in various corners before disappearing into the en-suite bathroom, only to emerge a minute later with your makeup bag, where you fished out a red lipstick. Tossed the bag onto the bed. Uncapped the lipstick, cap flying somewhere behind you and landing next to a shoe.

Ah, shit. He’d have dreams about this tonight, wouldn’t he?

“Wormholes are also called Einstein-Rosen bridges,” you explained and drew a long, smudged line across a window pane in deep red. “They are theoretical solutions to Einstein’s equations of general relativity. They describe a tunnel-like structure connecting two separate points in spacetime.”

“Like a tunnel?”

“Yes, exactly!” you said, and Ben tried not to smile at your enthusiasm. He enjoyed it in silence and sangfroid. “I’m sparing you the folded paper analogy, but basically, it means time’s not a straight, rigid line. It’s flexible. Relative. You can bend it.”

Ben didn’t know what it was about the scene that got him – maybe it was how natural you looked doing it, talking through half-formed thoughts while your hand moved fast and confident. Or maybe it was because he’d seen this before, a lifetime ago. Chalkboard. Shed. That same furrow between your brows, the way you gestured mid-sentence like your mind was three steps ahead of your mouth.

“That’s what you do, right? Bend time?” Ben asked, barely keeping up, but he understood enough.

“Did, yes.”

“You tried jump-startin’ it again? Your abilities?” Ben watched your mouth open and then close, head shaking.

“I’m not a car, you know?” You snorted a small laugh and crossed your arms over your chest with a curious smile. “What would you suggest I do?”

“I don’t know.” Ben shrugged his broad shoulders. “You tried jumping off a building yet?”

Your smile twitched a little on your lips. “Uh, no, can’t say that I have. Why exactly would that help?”

Ben gave another shrug. “I don’t know. Facing your fears?”

“I’m not afraid of heights,” you replied, chuckling. “I’m afraid I get stuck somewhere I don’t wanna be.”

Like 1942, Ben thought dryly.

“So, it doesn’t work at all right now?”

“No, it works. I just can’t control it. It’s like a mental block, you know?” you explained. “But back at the lab when you detonated, you triggered it, and I accidentally jumped. Landed back in New York with a five-minute time difference.”

“Huh. That’s how you disappeared,” he muttered under his breath. “What triggers it?”

“I don’t know. Could be anything. Mostly stress, fear, panic,” you replied.

Ben then realized that was how you’d vanished that night as well, wasn’t it? You were scared and emotional, and a minute later, you were gone.

You hadn’t left him. Hadn’t wanted to. Not on purpose.

His chest tightened, but he didn’t let it show. He’d waited eight decades for that answer.

“So, how this whole thing work?” Ben asked with a clear of his throat. “What happens when you go back and change somethin’?”

You chewed on your lower lip for a moment. “Well, there are several major theoretical models. Fixed loops – like Novikov’s principle – say you can’t change the past because you already did. So time, in a sense, is self-correcting.”

“What does that mean?”

Ben watched, half amused, half fascinated, as you scrawled a massive loop across the glass. It wobbled a little, more oval than circle, but your point came across.

“This is a fixed loop,” you said and jabbed the top of the circle with your lipstick. “Everything repeats. You can’t change the outcome because your future self already did whatever you’re going to do. Paradoxes get swallowed up by consistency. There’s no free will.” You drew a squiggly line through the loop. “Now, if you diverge from the loop here, you create a branch. Alternate reality. That’s the multiverse model. Every choice spawns a new timeline.”

“So how many timelines are there?”

“Infinite,” you said slowly. “Every little choice you make on a daily basis creates an alternate timeline where you made a different choice.”

Ben tilted his head, watching your reflection in the glass. “So, what... you break off one path, and now there’s two versions of me out there?”

You giggled lightly. “I mean, yes, basically. It’s Everett’s theory. If you switched your toothpaste, there’s another version of you out there that didn’t,” you said.

“So, which one’s the correct theory?” Ben asked, leaning back in his chair, joint halfway burnt.

“I think both theories are true,” you replied. “You could be in a loop and create branches at the same time. It’s all quantum probability.”

Ben stared, lips pursing.

You stared back. “What part didn’t you follow?”

He scratched his jaw. “The part where I need a damn PhD just to keep up.”

You smiled a little, nodding. “Alright, let’s simplify. Movies.”

Two hours later, you’d explained every working model on time there existed, went through both plots of Terminator and Back to the Future in great detail, and told him about the butterfly effect.

“In a fixed loop, the butterfly effect still exists, but it’s already been accounted for,” you said and stretched your arms over your head with a yawn. It was already long past midnight. “So even if you think you’re making a new choice or messing something up, that choice has already been ‘written’ into the loop’s history. You’re just fulfilling it.”

“So it’s like a script?”

You nodded and shrugged. “Kinda yeah.”

“What if something changes? What happens then?” Ben asked, the feeling in his gut coiling tighter.

If he understood it correctly, you and him were apparently caught in one of those loops. You’d explained it like a chain reaction – dominos propped up in a circle. If one was removed, the circle wouldn’t work anymore.

All he had to do now, was find the missing domino and nudge the first one with his fingertip.

“I mean, theoretically, you can break the loop and create a new quantum branch. But it’s risky,” you said, teeth tugging at your bottom lip. “You don’t know what changes or how much. That’s why it’s better not to interfere.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Ben had to ensure everything stayed the same in order for you to go back to 1942 and fall in love with him. But his heart was already stinging – warning him.

He tried to think back, remember every little interaction he ever shared with you in the past. But what stuck was the beginning – how scared you were. Not just of the strange world around you but of him.

You weren’t spooked because someone had been after you. Not Vought, not the government, or some other asshole like Butcher.

He recalled how you’d crashed into him in the street, nearly knocking him over. How fast you recoiled when he’d reached out instinctively to steady you – like his touch burned. You looked like someone who’d been through hell and wasn’t going to let anyone drag you back – especially him.

The looks of fear, the no touching, the not trusting – it all had been for him, hadn’t it? You’d hated him when you landed in 1942. You’d probably seen what he’d done, knew what he’d still do. Some future version of him had done something. Had broken your trust. Hurt you. Betrayed you. Enough that you came back in time and looked at him like he was the worst kind of monster.

And he hated that he’d have to do it to you again. But he didn’t have a choice, did he?

Because if he let this go on – the bonding, your smiles, your looks like he could be more – he’d risk losing it all. What if you got stuck in 1942 already liking him? What would happen then?

“You okay?” you checked with a soft smile.

Ben nodded slowly. “Uh, yeah. Just thinking.”

But even when you despised him at first back then, even when you knew everything there was to know about him – every cruelty, every mistake, every life he took – you still fell in love with him.

And he could see it now, too – how you looked past everything that had happened in the last few days, every chaos and death he caused. And still, you were here, smiling and talking to him like he was just another human being and not a cold-hearted killer with tons of baggage.

The beginning of it was already there. He remembered it like it was carved into bone: the way your eyes softened. The way you let your guard down slowly, week by week. The way you started to look at him like he was worth something. Like he wasn’t just a weapon someone had pointed at the world and forgotten to leash.

You’d fallen in love with him despite everything. You were doing it again now, too.

And he hated that he couldn’t let it happen. He had to stop it, or it could ruin everything. It was too fucking soon.

Ben squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, jaw grinding tight as the plan formed – quiet and bitter.

He had to make you hate him. He had to be the version of himself you were willing to run from. Even if it killed him.

But he couldn’t let you like this version of him. Couldn’t let you trust him too easily. If he was too soft, too honest, too goddamn human, you might not look at him the same way when you’d eventually land in 1942. You might not flinch. You might not run. And then–

The loop would fracture. It would all fall apart.

“You wanna stay up and watch Back to the Future with me?” you asked with a little grin.

Ben hesitated for a moment, watched the smile dance on your lips like it was the rising sun. His heart ached.

“Yeah,” he agreed with a faint smile. “Why not?”

And sure, after everything he’d learned tonight, he should’ve said no. Should’ve said something mean and cruel and lay the brickwork for the downfall. But he couldn’t do it. Not yet.

He decided to let himself have one last night – one night of closeness, of enjoying your smiles, of hearing your laughs. He was allowed to have one nice thing, even if it didn’t last.

And tomorrow?

He’d go back to the cocky, smug bastard he used to be. He’d tease you. Grate on your nerves. Maybe even push too far, just enough for you to roll your eyes and walk away. He’d play the part, he’d set the trap, and he’d make sure the loop held.

Even if it broke him more than Russia ever did.

For the next three days, Ben had avoided you as best as possible while he formed his plan. But it was harder than expected because every time he turned around, you were there. Coffee mug in hand, nose in a book, leaning over Legend’s pool table with a stretch that gave him thoughts he shouldn’t be having.

And it was starting to piss him off. Because the more he tried to create distance, the more he wanted to be near you.

He doubled down over the following week.

At first, he started small – sexist comments here and there, belittling you, or telling you to fetch shit for him. He made you his personal assistant, which Butcher highly supported. It annoyed you, sure, but it didn’t exactly make you hate him. Of course you couldn’t make it easy on him.

So, he went a little further next. He started screwing Legend’s maids like clockwork, hoping that would do it and maybe even make you a little jealous. Needless to say, all that did was make you disgusted – your words, not his. You’d told him as much when he called for you to bring him a new bottle of lube.

But none of it made you hate him. And that terrified him more than anything.

On the morning of day eight, Butcher and Hughie were still neck-deep in trying to trace Mindstorm, and Ben was growing more impatient by the hour. As he padded toward the kitchen, he paused in the hallway when he heard your voice – sharp and pissed.

“You don’t get to act like you’re in charge. You have no plan. You’re just drugging him up and sending him like a rabid dragon toward your revenge fantasy,” you snapped. “He’s not a person to you. He’s a tool.”

Ben leaned his shoulder against the wall just out of sight, listening.

“But he’s not a person to you either, sunshine,” Butcher bit back. “He’s dangerous. You said so yourself. Called him a liability if I remember correctly. So help us find Mindstorm, and the sooner you can go back to your life and leave all this bloody shite behind you, Doc.”

“You want me to help you find Mindstorm?” The laugh you let out was dry and short, laced with disbelief. “After everything with Soldier Boy at Herogasm? Did your frontal lobe fall out in the car? I told you – I’m not gonna help with this little murder spree. You guys are on your own for this.”

“I think you forgot you’re not in a position to play hard to get, sunshine,” Butcher said lowly. “You wanna stay under the radar, I suggest you help the people that are currently keeping Vought off your back.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you shot back. “Don’t pretend you’ve been doing me a favor. If you wanna turn me in to Vought, be my guest. It’ll take them two weeks just to figure out what name I’m using this time. Not to mention, I’ll tell them you’ve been running around with a war criminal.”

Ben felt his lips twitch. God, you had guts. Butcher went quiet at that – he had no cards left to play and knew it.

“Jesus,” Butcher muttered. “Bloody useless, the both of you.”

Ben waited until footsteps retreated. Then he strolled into the kitchen like he’d just gotten out of bed and hadn’t heard every word.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he said, grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped the cap, letting it fall to the tile.

You didn’t react. Hughie grimaced.

“What, no geriatric gangbang scheduled for this morning?” you deadpanned.

Ben grinned, lazy and smug. “You jealous? ‘Cause I’m sure I can pencil you in for noon.”

“Great,” you replied with a wry smile. “I can draw you a diagram of what an STD looks like.”

Ben clicked his tongue, lips curling. “Feisty, but you know you love me.”

“I really don’t.”

Stupidly, that stung. But he let it roll off his shoulders.

Over the next few days, he tried and tried again, but nothing was working. Every time he expected you to snap – to scream, to cry, to tell him you fucking hated him – you didn’t. You just looked at him like he was something under your shoe. Sometimes you were too annoyed to care. Sometimes too tired to react. Sometimes you hit him with the most surgical, disinterested commentary that bruised his ego in ways nothing else could.

But you never hated him. You endured him – which was arguably worse.

Ben couldn’t tell you what he knew. Couldn’t give away that he was watching his every step like a man walking a minefield. But you’d said it yourself – no disruptions, no butterfly effect.

But every night, when he lay awake in that stiff bed, his mind kept drifting back to the soft shape of your smile when you were excited about something, to the way your lips brushed his jaw in the dark, murmuring things you hadn’t meant to say. And he wondered – if this version of you never went back, never finished the loop… Would you ever love him at all?

So he stayed cold. Distant. Loud. He banged maids and played dumb. He tried everything short of outright cruelty.

Till he realized there was no way around it. He needed to push harder.

Mindstorm had been a fucking disaster – fully yours and Hughie’s fault.

As soon as Butcher had been taken out by that psycho freak with a migraine, the kids had formed an alliance against him – undermined him every step of the way.

When he got meaner and crueler to you, Hughie would step in like your knight in shining polyester. It was fucking annoying. And no matter what he said or did, you still never backed down.

All in all, fucking frustrating – not as frustrating as the news he received, however.

That same night, Ben found you in a place he’d never wanted to find you – Legend’s music room, seated right at the piano as your fingers tickled the ivory keys.

It did unspeakably barbaric things to his heart.

He paused in the doorway for a second, just watching. Enjoying. Reeling.

Luckily, he was already nursing his third whiskey when he stepped inside. You didn’t glance up at him, not really, just arched a brow.

“Jesus fuck, what now?” you huffed, halfway onto another eye roll. Your patience with him had become thiner than ice over the last week.

“You got a minute?”

“Depends,” you said grimly. “Am I about to get roped into another errand that involves you traumatizing the staff?”

Ben’s mouth twitched. He should’ve expected that. The maid incidents hadn’t exactly landed the way he’d wanted it to. You’d just gotten more judgy – like you were slowly starting to catalog him the way a scientist would a failing experiment.

“No lube runs this time. I promise,” he said, strolling in. “This is serious. I need your help with something.”

And boy, was it fuckin’ somethin’. Not exactly the conversation he ever planned on having with you. Where would he even start?

Hey, sweetheart, you know how you already think I’m a mess of bad decisions and unchecked aggression? Well, guess what – Vought used my sperm to make the guy I’m supposed to kill. Neat, huh?

The worst part, though?

You were the only person he’d ever imagined that with. The only one who’d made the idea feel like more than some stupid pipe dream – a house, a dog, maybe a kid with your eyes.

Not this – not some fucking lab-bred monster raised in a cage to replace him.

Your face softened then, anger dissipating. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Uh, no, not really. That freak told me something today, and I need you to check if it’s true.” Ben swallowed, stepping closer.

He crouched down beside you, arms resting on the bench’s edge – close enough to feel your body heat, but not close enough to ask for anything more.

“Okay, what is it about?”

“In the fall of 1980, Vogelbaum called me into the lab.” He hesitated for a second, licking his lips. “Wanted a… sample.”

Your brow quirked. “Like–”

He held up a hand. “Yup, sperm.”

“Ew.” You grimaced. “Did they at least buy you dinner first?”

God, he fucking loved you and hated how he couldn’t tell you.

Ben gave a short, humorless laugh. “Nah, just handed me a cup and a dirty magazine. I made do.”

“You’re so brave.”

“Thanks.” He rubbed his face. “They told me it was just for genetics. Research, you know? I felt flattered. Didn’t think twice about it. Hell, they wired me twenty grand. I left fuckin’ whistling.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, trying not to laugh. “Sure, yeah. If Nazi geneticists ask for more of your DNA, you always say yes for money and pride.”

Ben took a deep breath for the next part. “Mindstorm said they used it. That they made something with it. Someone.”

Your face shifted then, sobering up fast. Quiet alarm. “You think he meant–”

“Homelander.”

You bit your lips hard.

“I wanna know if it’s true,” he added. “I wanna know what the hell they did.”

You stared at him a moment longer, then nodded. “Okay, uhm… I can look for you.”

You closed your eyes then and only a second later, you gasped – sharp and low. Ben heard your heart beating faster.

Your eyes flew open with a “Jesus fuck.”

“That bad?” Ben checked against his better judgment. He’d pay a trillion bucks not to know the answer.

You blinked hard, catching your breath. “It was like watching the Antichrist claw his way out of hell.”

Ben’s stomach twisted, head bobbing in defeat. “That bad. Got it.”

“But it’s true. I’m sorry,” you said finally. “They used your DNA. The embryo was carried by a homeless girl – barely twenty. Vought gave her two grand and a contract she didn’t understand. She died during birth. He-, uh, he killed her. Killed a few others too. Floated out of her with the cord still attached.”

Ben frowned. “Did you really have to share that part?”

You twitched your shoulders innocently. “Hey, if I had to suffer through that, so do you.”

Ben didn’t laugh, only let out a shaky breath and found your eyes. “What do–, uh… What do I do now?”

“Uhm…” Your lips parted for a moment, thinking. “Well, you know they didn’t just make him to replace you, right? They made him to never need anyone. Most of all, you.”

Ben didn’t respond to that. He just sat there for a moment longer in your presence. How stupid was it that a part of him still ached for something he’d never had? A different life. A different version of you. One that remembered what he remembered.

Now, in his real life, he was just a man with blood on his hands and a legacy made of ash. A father without knowing it. A failure even in that.

Ben looked up at you then. “You ever think about kids?”

You gave him a look like he’d asked if you wanted syphilis. “Fuck no,” you snorted.

He raised an eyebrow, licking his lips. “That firm a stance, huh?”

“Look, I like kids. They’re undeniably cute,” you said, and he’d almost smiled. But it didn’t last – his chest felt hollow. “But I’ve seen what Vought babies look like. And you practically created the lovechild of King Claudius and Palpatine with a Big Brother kink. This whole thing was like watching a PSA for not having babies. So, pretty sure that’s a solid no by now.”

“Right,” he said quietly and slowly rose back to his feet.

And then, he felt it – grief.

He’d lost a lot in his life. Fans. Friends. Family. A future. But this – losing you like that – this was a different kind. Slow poison that killed him from the inside out.

“You gonna tell Butcher?” Ben asked then. He knew you technically had to – unless he killed the asshole for blackmailing you.

You stayed quiet for a beat and studied him before answering. “No,” you said, surprising him. “I mean, eventually, yeah. But knowing Butcher, he won’t care. He’s still gonna want him dead, and he’s still gonna want you to do it. And I think you deserve a night to make your own decision, so…”

“Thanks,” he murmured.

“Well, uhm, I’m gonna go to bed. Kinda beat after today. You know, after the schizophrenic mind freak and, uhm, all the verbal abuse – courtesy of you, of course,” you joked dryly and stood, sauntering to the door, all too happy to get away from him again. But when you still turned around, there was sympathy in your eyes. “Don’t worry, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

Ben couldn’t bring himself to respond, only slumped down on the bench with a sigh and a whiskey in hand.

The part that hurt most was how badly he wanted to believe you. That maybe we was still something he could count on. That maybe, even after everything, you’d still help him find a way out of the wreckage of his life.

Ben had one job that week.

Not to kill Homelander. Not to show Butcher what a real soldier looked like. Not even to stay alive.

No, the job was simpler, crueler, harder: Make you hate him – or it would all go to shit.

You weren’t allowed to love him yet. Not until the loop could hold. Not until history clicked into place and the ugly cycle wore itself out the way it was meant to. So for a week, Ben did what he’d never done before.

He broke his own heart, over and over. With volition. With purpose.

He kept fucking Legend’s maids. Loud, messily, with the doors open and no apology in his eyes. Gave you the worst of himself till he even got bored of it. He threw your past back in your face, mocked the way you still believed in him – if you did at all. He called you a tagalong, a liability, a glorified errand girl.

Ben did what he was good at – what Soldier Boy was good at.

He shut down. Barked orders. Called you useless so many times, hell, even you were starting to believe you were broken. He used that. Leaned into it. Said you’d get someone killed. Maybe yourself. He didn’t flinch when you stared at him like you didn’t recognize the man in front of you. That was the point.

He went colder. Meaner. He let the old monster fully out, the one who constantly picked fights and kicked in doors and laughed while people begged.

But you weren’t useless. You were the only thing in this twisted fucking world that made him want to be more than a weapon again.

And you? And you fucking endured it all – like you were playing a longer game than him.

Maybe you were. Ben had overheard your plans when you chatted with your girlfriends recently – after Homelander, you were done. You were planning to apply for teaching jobs at colleges, striking a deal with Edgar, moving on.

But Ben couldn’t let you move on. Couldn’t let you out of his sight again. Couldn’t just let you walk away into freedom.

But you still never flinched. Never screamed. Even after Mindstorm, when he tried to drown the memory of who he used to be in booze and rage. Even when he insulted you just to escape the gravity of how much he still wanted to be the man you loved in 1942.

You always just watched him like you were memorizing every awful thing he said, every dismissive look, every command barked like you were furniture – filing it away.

You never broke.

But he did – and he hated you for it.

The worst part, though? You still didn’t fucking betray him, even when the chance was presented to you on a silver platter – a golden ticket to get rid of him for good – and you didn’t take it.

No, fucking worse – you warned him. Helped him. Saved his ass.

When Butcher and Maeve joined him at Vought Tower, Ben made sure you weren’t invited. Told Butcher you were useless. Told you that you owed him for it. Probably added some sexist remark that he hadn’t used sincerely since the Nixon era.

But of course, you fucking showed up anyways – with Hughie, Annie, MM, Frenchie, and Kimiko.

Chaos ensued in every direction. But before they got to him, you stopped it all.

“What the fuck are you doing here? I gave you a fuckin’ out,” he barked at you, concealing his concern as best as possible while the world was frozen around the two of you.

The silence was almost serene – the most peaceful he ever felt on a battlefield.

“I know you did,” you said, not even pretending you hadn’t seen right through him. “That’s why I’m here.”

You told him then about the other assholes' plan – that as soon as Homelander was in the ground, they’d come for him next. Ben almost exploded and killed them all right then and there – but you convinced him not to.

“Don’t kill them, please,” you begged him with that doe-eyed, reaching-into-a-man’s-soul look. “Just let them go.”

“You just told me they wanted to lock me back up in that fucking box!”

“And they can’t, okay? I sabotaged Frenchie’s little Novichok cocktail. It’s not gonna do anything. I promise,” you assured him. “Just act surprised or tell them you’ve built up an immunity against the stuff or some shit. And then walk away.”

Ben only scoffed at the mere suggestion. “You fuckin’ want me to just let it go?”

“You killed MM’s family, okay? Can’t blame the guy for taking his fucking shot,” you countered, looking intently into his eyes.

“What if they fuckin’ try it again, hm?” he asked, quieter now, but his chest was still heaving and firing up beneath his skin.

You exhaled a long breath before answering. “They won’t. I’ll make sure of it. But you gotta work a little with me here, okay? Just be less… belligerent. And controversial.”

Ben considered it for a moment. Considered you. “How can I fucking trust you, huh? You could just be sayin’ all that shit, so I fight less when it happens. I mean, outta all of them, you have probably the most reason to get rid of me, right?”

And that fucking hurt the most.

“Probably, yeah,” you admitted like it didn’t deepen the crater in his chest, but a smile tugged at your lips. “But I told you a few weeks ago, I thought you deserved better. Still holds true.”

Ben’s brow furrowed, his heart stinging. “Why?”

“Entropy,” you said simply and gave a shrug of your shoulders. “Did you really think it’d all end with Homelander? I’ve heard Butcher refer to himself as a ‘supe exterminator’ on multiple occasions now. Homelander’s just the biggest threat at the moment, but after he’s gone…”

“They’ll come for me,” Ben finished.

Fuck, you were smart. No wonder Stan Edgar had been scared enough of you to want you dead.

“And me, probably,” you added.

“I thought those guys are your friends,” Ben noted.

“They are until they aren’t,” you replied. “Payback was your team until it wasn’t.”

“Got it.” Ben clicked his tongue. “So, what? You wanna strike a deal now? You watch my back, I watch yours?”

Another shrug. “Maybe.”

And God, fuck, he wanted that. More than anything.

“No,” he managed to say. And you still didn’t react – like you’d expected that answer. “Sorry, but you’re on your own, sweetheart.”

You gave him a nod. “Figured. Men make stupid decisions all the time.”

A smile of amusement briefly flashed across his lips. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He meant it.

And then, in the next blink of an eye, you were gone. Vanished right in front of him. Took Ryan with you, even though Ben wanted to scorch every last bit of rotten Brooks DNA that had weaseled itself through time and sprouted like weeds.

The fight with Homelander was brutal. Biblical in that kill-your-own-children way. But no one was left untouched. Ben was losing, then winning, then losing again. Homelander’s strength was impossible. But you changed the game.

You fucking cheated. Came back just to rig it.

Homelander screamed, fought, bled. Maeve leapt into the fray. Butcher took a blast and kept going. Ben punched steel wrapped in daddy issues. You froze Homelander long enough for him to charge.

Together, you all changed the tide.

But the price was high. The detonation burned through every supe in range – Butcher, Maeve, Annie, Kimiko, and you. It took a drop of blood falling from your nose onto marbled tile that made Ben surge forward and tackle the caped supe. And with Homelander in his grip and Maeve beside him, he dove out the fucking window, drawing the blast away.

But it wasn’t enough.

Because when he came to, scorched and dazed on the street below and Homelander twitching in a crater, MM was carrying you out of the rubble – body limp, nose gushing red, head lolling, eyes shut.

You didn’t wake up.

Not on the way to the CIA facility. Not during Butcher’s rant about being robbed of revenge. Not when Frenchie and Kimiko paced the waiting room floor. Not when Annie cried, or Hughie sat in numb silence, or MM tried to keep everyone calm.

Ben followed them, and no one stopped him. Not even when he stood in the hallway outside your hospital room, hands shaking and heart thundering like it hadn’t in eighty years.

He tried to look apathetic. Bored and not like someone with a crushing pain in his ribcage. He sat on the bench outside your room, staring at the wall like it owed him a fucking explanation. Clenched his fists and dug his heels into the linoleum to keep him from going in and reaching out.

He’d spent a week trying to get you to fucking hate him. He’d said the worst shit he could come up with. Treated you like garbage. Fucked every distraction within arm’s reach.

And you still came back for him. Still saved him. Now you might never wake up to see how it would end.

Inside the room, you weren’t moving. Machines beeped steadily. A coma, they’d said. Not permanent – maybe. Not fatal – yet. But your body had taken the hit of freezing time across an entire floor full of supes while his own powers weakened you. And apparently, something in your brilliant brain had finally gone too far. Lit up and blown out.

He knew it was his fault – somewhere under the anger and the static and the sharp edge of grief curling behind his ribs. If you hadn’t stopped him – if you hadn’t warned him – he’d have killed them all. Annie, Butcher, hell, maybe even Ryan. He wouldn’t have stopped. He wouldn’t have thought.

You’d made sure he didn’t become exactly what they thought he already was.

Ben leaned forward and rested his clasped hands between his knees. He didn’t pray. He didn’t beg. But he came close.

And then, he could smell the fucking bastard before he heard his footsteps stroll down the hallway toward him.

Stan Edgar. Older. Just as smug. Still smelled like overpriced cologne and executive privilege. The last time Ben had seen that face, was in 1984, and Payback had just handed him over like a dog someone got tired of feeding.

Ben didn’t even look up when the expensive loafers halted in front of him.

“I was wonderin’ how long it’d take you to slither in,” he said coldly and met Edgar’s eyes. “You have some fuckin’ nerve showing up here. Can’t decide yet if it’s ballsy or stupid.”

Stan Edgar’s voice was the same as it had been in the ‘80s – cool, measured, and full of contempt he didn’t bother hiding. “I almost didn’t. But then, you’re not the one I came to see.”

Ben rose to his feet. Slow. Deliberate. Towering.

“You’re not fucking touching her,” Ben growled. “Give me one good fuckin’ reason I shouldn’t put your teeth through the back of your goddamn skull.”

Stan didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Was that a fucking thing smart people had in common?

“Because you need me,” he replied with a calm smile.

Ben scoffed a laugh – humorless and sharp. “That’s a new one.”

Stan’s gaze flickered to the closed door beside them. Your room. A hint of interest passed over his face – not warm, not cruel, just precise.

“You’ve done an admirable job pretending you don’t care about her,” Stan said. “Almost convincing.”

Ben’s fists clenched, his teeth gritting. “Walk away.”

“But you do care,” Stan continued, eyes narrowing. “You always did. Even back then when you first told me about her. We never did find out what exactly she changed. Only she will probably ever know the truth. But I do know she’s your axis, Soldier Boy. Your tether. She’s what you’re fighting to stay alive for, even if you’re too angry and broken to admit it.”

Ben’s jaw twitched.

Stan let the silence draw out. Let the words sink in. And then, in a tone that was too casual to be anything but deliberate, he mused, “She hasn’t gone back yet, has she?”

Ben looked up sharply.

Stan gave a small, knowing smile. “I thought so. This version of her – the one lying comatose on the other side of that door — she’s still in the present. Which means the loop hasn’t closed. Which means you still need her. Alive. Close. And willing to go.”

“Go to hell,” Ben hissed and stepped closer. “You set me up. You handed my team the knife and told ‘em where to cut. You’re the reason they sold me out, the reason I was buried under forty years of ice and piss and Commie tests. I don’t make deals with fucking snakes.”

Stan stepped back, adjusting his cuffs. “She doesn’t know, I assume. Not about you. Not about what you were to her. That’s important. You break that too early, it falls apart.”

Ben scowled – hard and quiet. His blood boiled underneath his skin. “That a threat?”

“It’s a truth,” Stan said, smiling. “One you’ve gone to great lengths to protect.”

“Careful, Edgar,” he muttered, jaw grinding. “Because if I start swinging, you won’t come back from that one.”

“You won’t kill me,” Stand replied calmly. “Because I know what she’s planning. I know she’s applied to universities in Boston, New York, Los Angeles, even Paris. She’s waiting until this ends to disappear. Teaching gigs, research grants. A clean, respectable life. Smart girl. Admirable, really.” He tilted his head slightly. “You can’t follow her there. And you know it.”

Ben’s fists clenched at his sides. “You’re here to blackmail me.”

“I’m here to make sure you don’t burn your only lifeline,” Stan replied. “The war with Homelander is almost over. The dust is going to settle, and some of us are smart enough to plan ahead. Someone needs to replace him. Smooth things over with the public.”

Ben scoffed a dark chuckle. “I’m not gonna be your fuckin’ Vought puppet again. You’re playing with fire, Stan.”

“No,” Stan said, meeting his gaze coolly. “You are. By dragging her into this. By trying to keep her close without telling her who you really are. You think she won’t leave? That she won’t hate you when she finds out? Not to mention, if you mishandle this, the loop never starts.”

Ben didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. They both knew what was at stake.

“You want her alive and in your vicinity. I want insurance. I think we can come up with something mutually beneficial,” Stan said. “I keep your secret and help keep her here. In exchange, you don’t kill me and save the company. And when the dust settles, we both walk away.”

The old rage in Ben’s chest itched like a half-healed scar. Everything in him wanted to flatten this bastard with his goddamn boot. Snap his jaw, twist his wrist, spill the truth of 1984 in blood and bone. But if Stan opened his smug little mouth at the wrong time, you’d run.

“Got any bright ideas?”

That same old smug smile curled on Stan’s lips. He knew he won. “I do,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”

And just like that, he was gone – leaving Ben alone again with the silence and the guilt and the weight of the impossible.

Ben thought it would get easier after you woke up. It didn’t.

Three days of silence in that hospital room, and the moment your eyes finally opened, he felt something in him uncoil so violently it almost hurt. He didn’t show it, of course. Kept the mask on. But deep down? He had nearly fucking broken. It was the damn relief that did it – the blinding, gut-punching realization that you were still here. Still breathing. Still his to destroy.

Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it?

Destruction.

After the showdown with Homelander, you’d lost your other ability, too. That stupid, terrifying power of yours – pausing time like it was nothing – was gone. Burned out, maybe. Broken. Either way, it was one less variable to worry about.

Because without it, you changed.

Ten months later, you were still here, still pretending you weren’t afraid of him, but your edges had dulled. No more cocky interruptions, no more smug little barbs when he barked orders. You still seethed – he could see it in the set of your jaw, in the stiff way you handed him his schedule or fetched his dry cleaning – but now, finally, you hated him. Not just with defiance. With disappointment. With bitterness.

Quiet, sharp, cold – just like he needed.

The deal you made with Edgar had made all of this possible. Vought had wanted you dead for years. Ever since you appeared on their doorstep with chronokinesis (and one clumsy meeting in ’83), they’d flagged you as a catastrophic liability. You’d been in hiding, hunted by the company until Edgar put a lid on it.

A truce, really.

You got your life back, and in return, Soldier Boy became the fucking leash – again.

Public relations rehab. America’s first supe rebranded as the woke patriot. Pride parades, women’s marches, climate rallies – Ben did it all. Sure, he had wanted to throw up half the time and punch someone the other half, but he showed up. Grinned like an idiot. Waved at the cameras. Did what he had to do to stay on the team – because that meant keeping you close.

That was the condition he gave Butcher. And you.

If you left, so did he. And if he left? Edgar would gut the deal. You’d be back on the hit list in seconds. He didn’t have to say it twice. You stayed. You endured.

You even tried to look forward to something, curb your disappointment. You got an offer to teach at NYU that made you smile brighter than the sun, not knowing he’d already crushed it behind the scenes.

But that wasn’t enough. He needed proximity. Pressure. Something deeper and more convenient.

So he made you his PA.

His old ones never lasted. Never could handle him and for sure as hell hated him. And you? You had no choice. No power. No way out. So you agreed.

For the past ten months, he turned your life into something small. Something gray. Verbal jabs turned into long, punishing days. Coffee, coke, and condom runs at 3AM. Paperwork dumped in your lap without warning. Public ridicule disguised as jokes. Every time you smiled at someone else, he punished it with ten more errands. Every time you looked like you might find a second of peace, he shattered it.

He never laid a hand on you, but he didn’t have to. He broke your spirit in slow, deliberate pieces.

And it fucking worked.

You hated him. Truly. Deeply. Visibly. That sparkle in your eyes he loved so much was gone, replaced by exhaustion and contempt.

But still not enough.

You hadn’t gone back yet. Hadn’t slipped. Hadn’t triggered the loop. And he was running out of time. Your birthday was in a week – the day he was banking on. The day you’d finally break. He’d rehearsed every possibility. Every variable. Every sharp word and final blow.

And then, right when things were at their most frayed and he didn’t know what else to do to push you over that cliff, Vought PR sent him to a fucking middle school – which turned out to be his saving grace.

Edgar thought it would be good for Soldier Boy’s image – the kids would love it, marketing said. He had to suit up. Shake hands. Sign notebooks. Let a bunch of snot-nosed brats ask him questions about courage and justice like he hadn’t spent the last year slowly mutilating the best person he ever knew.

Annie stood beside him as Starlight, all practiced smiles and warm answers. The kids screamed when she flipped the light switch in the gym and lit the damn rafters up with gold. Soldier Boy, meanwhile, flexed once and signed a forehead.

But then, he saw you.

You were off to the side, chatting with someone he hadn’t noticed before. Young guy, decent build, probably early thirties, wearing a NASA sweatshirt like he earned it. Tall. Clean-cut. Big smile. Middle school science teacher, from the look of him.

The two of you were huddled near the supply room door, leaning against lockers like the rest of the world didn’t exist. You were holding a paper cup of coffee as if it was the Holy Grail and gesturing mid-rant with your free hand. The guy was nodding along, wide-eyed and grinning like a fucking rescue mutt who just found a forever home.

The way you laughed, the way you leaned in without even noticing – something in Ben fucking snapped. And before he could stop himself, he perked his ears to catch the conversation.

“–taught at a tiny liberal arts college outside Montréal. Great students. Terrible funding. I built a cloud chamber out of a fish tank once just to prove we could,” you told the guy enthusiastically.

“No way.” The guy grinned brightly.

“Yup. Had to smuggle dry ice across the border in a cooler from Vermont. Worth it.”

“Wow, that’s dedication,” he chuckled.

“Please,” you grinned. “You haven’t seen dedication until you’ve tried to explain wave-particle duality using glow sticks and a laser pointer from Canadian Tire.”

Ben felt something unpleasant twist behind his ribs. You were glowing. Beaming.

“And you said you’re running something today?” you asked, curious now.

Ben stepped in closer, pretending to inspect the trophy case. His teeth ground together so hard he swore his molars would crack. If you dared so much as to touch the guy’s arm now, he’d blow up the whole goddamn school.

“Oh, yeah,” the guy said and lit up. “It’s the old NASA demo with vacuum and marshmallows. I’ve got a bell jar, vacuum pump, camera rig… We film the expansion in slo-mo and talk about gas laws. I also bring in Peeps for maximum horror.”

You laughed, full-bodied and joyful. “Stop! I love that experiment!”

“Come sit in,” he said, clearly encouraged. “You’d be great with them. Honestly, if you’re ever interested in guest lecturing, I know my eighth graders would lose their minds.”

Ben had heard enough.

“She’s got work,” he cut in behind you, voice casual and deadly. “She’s got a schedule. Doesn’t have time to blow up candy with middle schoolers.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even turn. “And you’ve got an audience to pander to, remember?”

Ben moved into the space beside you, shoulders squared, gaze sharp. “There’s a meeting in twenty minutes. You’re coming.”

“You and Annie have a meeting. I’ll catch up.”

“You sure about that?”

You raised your brows and stepped closer, your eyes flickering around the gym full of kids. You lowered your voice as you spoke, “What’re you gonna do? Throw me over your shoulder in front of a class of children and ten reporters? You can’t pull your usual bullshit with the world watching.”

He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t threaten you here, not with dozens of kids around and Annie two feet away. Couldn’t risk the cameras catching even the edge of a snarl.

He clenched his jaw.

“Guess I’ll go help inspire the next generation. You and Annie have fun with the mayor.” You smiled sweetly – fake as hell. Then you turned back to the teacher, tone instantly brighter. “Lead the way, professor. I want front-row seats for the Peep implosion.”

The guy smiled and opened the door for you. You went willingly – laughing again, relaxed, glowing, as if you hadn’t spent ten months taking his orders and swallowing his poison.

And Ben stood there, fuming, watching the door swing closed behind you like a goddamn slap in the face. His stomach twisted into knots he hadn’t felt since ’42 – the kind of jealousy that bordered on nausea. That pussy got a smile out of you. Got real laughter. Got your attention.

He hadn’t seen you that fucking happy in months. And you hadn’t looked at Ben like that in eighty-one goddamn years.

Now, none of it was for him.

That night, Ben waited.

He stood across the street for hours. A half-lit cigarette dangled between his fingers, long since dead. He didn’t light another.

Your little dungeon-level walk-up apartment was tucked under one of those overpriced brownstones with wrought iron railings and chipped stairs leading down from the sidewalk. Half a planter wilted on the stoop. A bike was chained to the gate like it had given up.

It was close to midnight. You still weren’t fucking home.

His jaw worked till he got a migraine. You’d left the school with that fuck. That smug, soft-spoken, teacher-voice fuck who probably graded tests with smiley faces and called his mother every Sunday. Probably had a cat. Or worse – a golden retriever.

Then, there you were – laughing.

You were walking up with that pussy now, your bag slung over your shoulder, hair pulled into a loose knot, your shoulders bare in the warm June air. You had your keys in hand before you even reached the steps. Ben followed your movements, watched as you gestured animatedly, then laughed again at something the science teacher said.

He hated the way you looked at the guy. Open. Interested. The bastard’s hand was way too fucking close to your back as you unlocked the door, and you smiled — all bright and easy. That sharp little smile that meant your brain was working overtime.

You let the teacher inside, and that was it.

Ben was across the street before you’d barely closed the door. By the time you answered his knock, loud enough to wake the damn neighborhood, you were already pissed.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Coffee,” Ben said, his lips curling into a slow, lazy smirk. “I want fucking coffee. From that place on 12th.”

“Seriously?” you scoffed, stepping half into the doorway.

“Now.”

“I’m off the clock.”

“You’re never off the fuckin’ clock.” Ben tilted his head a fraction. “You gonna make me ask twice?”

That’s when the guy inside appeared behind you, standing awkwardly with one of your mugs in hand, already halfway into his little “I should give you two a minute” face.

Ben’s eyes were locked on you. Not moving. There was no yelling. No words. Just a look. A cold, sharp threat that made your stomach flip – not for yourself, but for the man behind you.

You knew it instantly.

If you don’t go right now, I’ll snap his fucking neck.

Your throat worked before you turned back to the teacher, forcing a laugh that was half a breath too tight. “Give me ten minutes?”

The guy smiled, easy and trusting. “Sure, I’ll wait here.”

“Don’t break anything while I’m gone,” you muttered to Ben as you brushed past him.

Ben didn’t bother answering.

When the door slammed shut, the teacher guy was still standing by your couch, probably confused. Probably nervous.

Good.

Ben didn’t waste time. He walked a slow, heavy loop around the room. Took in the bookshelves, the cluttered little desk, the framed photo on the wall of you with Annie and Kimiko. His lip curled at the sight.

The teacher offered him a tight, awkward smile. “Did you need something, or…?”

Ben turned to face him. He didn’t speak at first, just stared. But when he finally did, it was low – gravel scraped off pavement.

“If you don’t walk out that fucking door in the next three seconds, I’ll break your neck so fast your brain won’t have time to know you’re dead.”

The teacher’s face went white.

“Don’t ever think you can fucking come back, either,” Ben added. “Lose her number.”

That was it. The door clicked shut a few seconds later.

And ten minutes later, when you finally came back, it all unraveled then.

You looked around, confused, before realizing the teacher was gone.

“What the hell did you do?” you snapped, storming toward Ben without waiting for an answer. “He was a decent guy, for once. And you scared him off like some rabid fucking–”

“I gave him three seconds,” Ben cut in, voice low and bored like he’s just filed his taxes. “He got out in two. Smart guy. You think I’m gonna let you go fuck some science fair reject?”

You crossed your arms, the dim light throwing shadows up your bare collarbones. “I think you’re bored. Again. And I think you should leave.”

Ben stepped forward. Just one little step. Measured.

You didn’t move – not yet.

“That’s cute,” he said, sneering. “Real fuckin’ cute. You think you get a say?”

His eyes dragged over you like a lazy threat.

“God, you can’t stand that I might have a goddamn moment to myself, can you? You don’t get to decide who I talk to. You don’t get to decide anything about my life.”

“I do when your life is fuckin’ mine. I own you. Get this through your stubborn fucking head.”

He said it like it was truth. Like the sky was blue, gravity was real, and you belonged to him.

You stepped closer, trembling with fury. “You treat me like a slave, you stalk me, you ruin any fucking chances I have at being happy–”

Ben chuckled – the kind of sound that set nerves on edge. “Happy?” He took a slow, deliberate step toward you. “You think flirtin’ with some soft-handed twink who’s never been in a fight is happiness?”

You stepped back instinctively.

Ben’s smile twisted. He saw it. Smelled it – fear.

“Here’s the thing, sweetheart,” he murmured, closing the gap like a lion circling the kill. “You wanna get laid so bad, maybe you should’ve just asked. I’m right fucking here.”

You scoffed, but he still came closer.

“C’mon, doll, you’re already playing the part. Dressing like that. Batting your lashes. Might as well bend over and get what you’ve been fuckin’ begging for.”

You backed up another half step, but the wall was coming up fast behind you – that little strip of space between the bookshelf and the door.

And Ben fucking followed.

His hand grazed your hip. Not a grab. Just fingers brushing the fabric. Deliberate. Familiar – the same fucking move his father had used. Fourth of July, 1942.

You flinched, just slightly, but that was all he needed. His stomach turned, but he didn’t stop.

Because this was the goddamn plan. This would push you far enough, wouldn’t it? It would probably make you hate him so much you’d go back in time just for the sole purpose of finally killing him.

Ben had never hated himself more than in this moment.

“That it, hm?” He caged you in with one arm against the wall, the other trailing down the curve of your waist like a slow threat, fingers dragging over fabric, flesh, and bone. “You thought some middle school dweeb was gonna fill you up? You wanted fuckin’ affection that bad?”

His fingers dug into your waist, just enough to stake a claim – just enough to threaten. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t move beyond the line. But he hovered on the fucking edge of it. Close enough to burn.

Your pulse began to race, panic biting at the edges – he could hear it. But your voice was steady and your shoulders straight. You didn’t cower.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you bit.

“You should be.”

His fingers tightened just barely again – enough to warn, not enough to bruise. Yet.

But as you looked up at him, stared into his eyes as if you could stare into his soul, something shifted in your gaze. Cold. Empty.

“I see it now,” you whispered. You didn’t sound afraid anymore, but he knew you still were. “That’s what this was always about. You want to break me.”

Ben froze, throat closing, but he didn’t take his hand off you.

“This is what it takes, huh? You want my dignity next? You wanna feel like a man? Rape me?” You spit the word in his face. “Go ahead, Ben. It’s still not gonna fucking break me.”

First time you ever used his actual name.

Ben flinched. Breath hitched. Heart hammering like he’d been the one cornered. He looked at you, really looked, and saw the hate there.

Clean. Pure. Uncompromising.

He’d finally fucking done it – and it felt like swallowing glass.

Finally, he took a step back like your sheer heat was burning him. “Careful, sweetheart,” he muttered. “Next time I won’t be so goddamn nice.”

And then he left. Fled your apartment, practically.

Because it was all he could do to keep himself from dropping to his knees and fucking screaming. The pressure that had been building in his chest all year – all eleven fucking months of playing the villain, twisting the knife deeper every day – it all burned too hot and sudden.

Ben kept telling himself then that it was just one more week. Seven fucking days. He could stomach anything for that long.

But each time you passed him in the hallway, eyes fixed on the floor, shoulders drawn in like you were bracing for impact, something inside him cracked further. You flinched when he cleared his throat. Stiffened when his shadow crossed yours. And when you looked at him, on the rare occasion you did, it was like you were finally seeing the monster.

It broke his fucking heart.

He had told himself this was the only way. That when it was over, when you were back – really back – he could explain everything.

But now, watching you move around him like a ghost of the girl he’d once known, he wasn’t so sure anymore. He didn’t know how to fix this. How to fix you. How to fix himself.

And the sick truth of it was, he wasn’t even sure he deserved the fucking chance.

▶️ Chapter 15: I May Be a Thief, but I Am Not a Cheat

Going back to the present next week! Yay 🥳

What did you think of this one? Did you expect Ben to go this far? Did you enjoy their little moments of bonding before Ben turned up the volume? Hope those last few chapters filled in some gaps. Writing his pov is always a bit wild 😂💚🦅

Coming Up:

Before his brain could supply more brilliant ideas, he caught you staggering another step. One more step backward and your hand darted to the brick wall beside you. You blinked, your knees shook, breaths grew labored. Your nose twitched, and your hand flew up to your face.

The blood came fast – just a drip, then another, your fingertips painted red.

His stomach dropped, his smirk dropped faster. Your knees gave just enough to make him lunge forward, and Ben was at your side in a second, arms reaching for you.

“Whoa, shit–… Hey, easy… I got you–”

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

Your voice hit like a whip. Not loud. Not harsh. Just final.

It stopped him cold. The words sank deep. Cut clean. Same tone you’d used back in 1942.

Same shit you said to him when he first offered you his hand and you looked at it like it was a trap. You didn’t want comfort then. You didn’t want it now either.

Ben slowly lowered his hands and backed off – and it hurt like fucking hell.

You leaned heavily against the wall of the corner store and slowly slid down to the cool concrete with a wince. Back slumped, one knee up, blood still streaking down the side of your face. Your eyes were sharp. Distant. Locked up like you couldn’t afford to let him close.

He watched you for a beat, jaw clenching. You were breaking. Physically. But you still wouldn’t let him in.

Of course not.

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None of them sounded familiar. Not his old team. No one from Payback – not that he’d really expected them to come for him. Not after what they fucking did.

But then he heard the only voice that ever mattered – yours.

“Uh, Butcher, I don’t think this was a good idea…”

“Don’t worry 'bout it.”

British. Male.

And for a second, Ben thought it was another hallucination of you. It wasn’t uncommon for him to hear your voice in his head, after all. It had been the only constant for… well, however long it’d been. But then:

“No, I don’t think you understand. This pod’s got like three inches of lead, borated polyethylene, and some kind of heat sink. I can’t read most of this since it’s in Russian, but if I’m reading these charts right, the decay signatures are insane. There’s Americium-241 in the isotopic yields. You only see that as a byproduct in low-burnup plutonium fuel cycles. Alpha and gamma radiation is peaking simultaneously. I mean, this spike right here is equivalent to a 3 Gray dose in under four seconds.”

Yeah, Ben didn’t understand a single word of that. His hallucinations of you had always been realistic, but they’d never been as fucking smart as the real thing. There was only so much his brain could do. Which meant:

You weren’t a figment of his drug-induced imagination.

“English, sunshine,” the British guy prompted impatiently.

You sighed loudly. “The Russians turned him into a walking nuke.”

Great.

Ben’s eyes snapped open in that moment, blinked a couple of times to get rid of the blur in his vision and the dazed fog in his mind, and then, sure enough, there you were – live and in the flesh.

Not more than two feet away from him, staring wide-eyed and horrified between strange men in blue worker overalls and guns in their hands.

Your face was the same, hadn’t aged a day since ‘42. Your hair was a mess, your skin was smudged with dirt and sweat, and you were wearing the same overalls as the rest of them, holding a thick folder in your hands like you belonged with those fucking strangers.

You came. Freed him. Saved him.

But as Ben took a step closer, you took one back and hid halfway behind one of the men, clinging to the guy’s arm like you were fucking scared. Scared of him.

You didn’t run to him. Didn’t sling your arms around him. Didn’t seem happy in the slightest to see him again.

Just… terrified.

And then, Ben felt it – the pressure building behind his sternum, white-hot and untamable.

“Uh-oh…” You took another cautious step back.

“What now?” the British asshole huffed, voice louder over the low hum that began to rise in the room.

“His decay constants are collapsing. His metabolic feedback loop’s destabilizing,” you said.

Ben’s chest started to glow. Lights vibrated in their sockets. Dust lifted from the floor.

“English!”

“Right. He’s gonna fucking blow,” you clarified.

Yup.

Still fucking smarter than a room full of men.

And then, the bomb inside him went off, he blacked out for a few seconds, and when the disorienting haze lifted and he opened his eyes, you were gone. Vanished.

Again.

Ben didn’t think long and hard at that moment – he knew this was his chance to finally escape, so he took it. Staggered out through the hole he blew into the wall, past humans and bodies on the ground.

He found a locker room in the facility, broke one open, stole some godawful and grimy tracksuit and boots that were too tight in the toes. He grabbed a lonely duffel bag filled with a gun, a combat knife, a pack of smokes and a box of matches, a ration bar, some rubles, and a half-empty bottle of vodka.

Good enough.

Tunnels turned into roads. Chain-link fences and barbed wire turned into forests. He walked till he found train tracks, followed them to a station, and read the word “АЭРОПОРТ” on a screen there.

Airport? Good enough.

He took his chances and, sure enough, made it onto an airfield. Found a plane leaving for New York City and hid with the cargo like a goddamn stowaway. But it didn’t matter. He was nothing if not resourceful, and more importantly, he was going fucking home.

The most shocking thing, though, aside from your sudden reappearance in one of the most devastating places on Earth during one of his strangest times?

How much time had fucking passed.

Ben knew the fucking Reds had locked him into that box and kept him frozen for a little while. He didn’t have a sense of time in there, just weird dreams, but he judged from the length of his hair and beard that it had been at least a few months, maybe even a year or two. The last date he could remember was 1990 before they put him on ice.

Well, cut to the airport where he found a newspaper that said it was 2022.

Thirty-two fucking years?!

By the time he hopped over the perimeter fence at fuckin' JFK and disappeared into Queens, he suddenly realized how much had truly changed. It was a different world now, and he was fucking lost.

No identity. No money. No plan.

As he moved through the outer boroughs toward Manhattan, everything around him was wrong. Too fast. Too loud. Too bright. It wasn’t the New York he remembered.

Billboards weren’t paper anymore and cars were sleeker and quieter. A kid with blue hair and a nose ring, two gay dudes, and a guy who talked into the watch around his wrist walked by him. Storefronts had rainbow flags, and a bus passed him with a star-spangled caped cunt plastered on its side, advertising another Vought-produced movie.

Some things didn’t change, he supposed.

The smell of the city was the same – diesel fuel, pot smoke, piss, and hot dogs – but the city itself wasn’t. This wasn’t his America – not even close.

The only fucking thing he disturbingly recognized in this brave, new world was the small, rectangular slab everyone carried around in their hands and stared obsessively into like they were seeing God in church.

You’d had one of those as well, and eventually, he realized that the thing he’d kept safe in a box for forty years was a goddamn phone – cordless.

Ben then stole a cup full of quarters from a bum and found a payphone, dialing a number he remembered from forty years ago. It rang once and went dead.

So he went old school.

He started poking around pawn shops and old Vought haunts till someone finally whispered the name he was after.

The Legend.

Old bastard probably still had a Rolodex bigger than Fort Knox. He knew every back door in Vought and where bodies were buried because he helped bury half of them.

And then, a plan slowly formed in Ben’s mind: hole up at Legend’s, get cleaned up, find his old team, and kill their backstabbing asses – preferably as brutal and merciless as possible.

Permanent measures, Ben scoffed internally, remembering Stan Edgar’s words from a meeting back in ‘83.

Well, who was fucking laughing now?

And then, finally, when all of it was said and done, Ben would come for you.

After some roughing up of a man in a bar, he then got an address in Midtown, but somewhere between Sixth Avenue and 59th Street, he heard it.

Tinny, distant, but unmistakeable – the same melody and sharp vowels of a Russian pop song. It drowned into his ears from a small radio in a parked food truck.

Something inside him cracked then.

His vision blurred. His knees buckled. His mind flooded with images he tried to bury deep. But the hum in his chest, the pressure, the fire under his skin had already started, violent and unstoppable.

Then came the flash.

He didn’t remember much more. He woke up to car alarms, sirens, and people screaming. Thick smoke hung in the air like fog and rubble was everywhere. He stared at the scorched remnants of a building that looked like a hurricane of flames had blown through it.

And Ben felt bad. He really did. Because, sure, one could argue he’d killed a lot of people over the long span of his career, so what were a few more?

But this was different. He hadn’t meant to.

Getting tortured by the fucking Commies was one thing, but they turned him into one of those supe freaks he’d always despised. Strongest man alive turned walking, uncontrollable nuke.

He fucking hated what they made him into. If he could fucking nuke the entire upper part of the Asian continent, he would.

Ben then kept his head down, moved through the back alleys and side streets, avoiding ambulances, police cars, and cameras till he ducked into the lobby of a pre-war high-rise on West 55th, next to a cigar shop and a boutique vodka bar.

The elevator then creaked up to the penthouses – PH4.

Ben raised his fist and knocked – three hard pounds, each one echoing through the hallway. The paint on the doorframe cracked slightly.

Footsteps. Slippers shuffling. Then the clunk of a lock sliding back. The door swung open, and there he was.

Legend. Older. Softer. But still himself. Robe loose, silk pajamas, gold chain on bare chest, slippers that cost more than a car, and a whiskey tumbler in hand at 10 AM. Eyes like saucers. He looked like he was seeing a fucking ghost.

Maybe he was.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” the old man breathed. “Ben?”

Ben didn’t answer right away. He was tired – bone-tired, blood-tired. He’d walked out of a Russian grave, burned a street down in Midtown, and ridden the subway in a stolen tracksuit like some goddamn hobo. The whole journey had already taken him five days.

“You gonna let me in or just stare at me like I crawled outta your fuckin’ toilet?”

Legend stumbled backward with a stunned laugh. “Of course! Of course! Come on in, come on in, you beautiful bastard! I thought you were dead! I mean, you were dead! The whole world thinks you’re–… Oh, man, wait ‘til I tell Marge–”

“Start with a drink,” Ben grunted as he stepped inside, looking around.

Legend’s place hadn’t changed much. Just a new location and a better view. Crystal decanters. Too many mirrors. A leopard print robe draped over a $9,000 couch. It smelled like citrus cologne, stale cigars, and money that hadn’t been earned honestly. The walls were plastered with nostalgia: framed magazine covers, awards, posters, photos of stars long dead. And there were more pictures of Soldier Boy than any museum dared hang. It was like stepping into a shrine of himself.

He peeked at one photo and felt fucking nothing.

Legend closed the door behind him and scrambled to keep up. “You’re really here. You’re alive. What the hell happened to you?”

“Reds,” Ben muttered.

“Jesus Christ, I thought they buried you. I mourned you, man.”

“Yeah? Must’ve been a real touchin’ tribute,” Ben said dryly.

Legend blinked. “Hey. I liked you, alright? I didn’t sign up for whatever Vought pulled. I wasn’t in the room when they made that call.”

“You sure about that?” Ben said quieter. Dangerous. “You weren’t in on it?”

Legend looked wounded, but he always had a flair for theatrics. “Ben, listen to me. I had nothing to do with it. Swear on my mother’s grave, I didn’t know a goddamn thing. You were the crown jewel. The whole plan was to sell you forever. Why would they toss the best brand they had?”

Ben watched him closely. Legend still had that salesman gleam, but his hands were fidgeting. The man might be a rat for a living, but he wasn’t a traitor.

“I believe you,” Ben said finally.

Legend sagged, relieved. “Jesus. Thank God.”

“Don’t thank him. He didn’t help.”

Ben accepted the drink offered to him without blinking. Scotch. Strong. First thing he’d tasted that didn’t remind him of a basement in Russia. Legend never poured anything cheap.

The older man then refilled his own glass with shaking hands. “They said you died. Nuclear meltdown in Ohio in ‘84. You went in alone. They did the whole shtick – flag over the casket, moment of silence at Vought Tower, candles, parade. Even got you a statue. Beautiful PR, really. You didn’t know?”

Ben turned his head slowly. “Do I look like I fuckin’ knew?”

So this was what it had come to? This was what his life had amounted to? Buried like a hero, commemorated for a blink of an eye, and then fucking forgotten.

A fuckin’ statue?!

“No, no, I guess not,” Legend said, still rambling. “You look like shit, frankly. You wanna catch up first or take a shower? ‘Cause, no offense, you smell like Cold War ass.”

Ben quirked an eyebrow. “You offerin’ to join me?”

Legend raised both hands. “Hey, man, I don’t swing like that – anymore.”

Sure. Ben scoffed under his breath and rolled his eyes slightly. Not like Bogart was ever balls-deep inside the guy.

They stood in silence for a beat. Legend then gestured vaguely back at the liquor cart. “You want something else? Shrimp? Bump? You still do coke, right?”

Ben glanced at him and plopped down on the velvet couch with a grunt. “You offering or reminiscin'?”

The old man moved behind the bar and opened a drawer. “You’re not gonna believe what I saved for a rainy day.”

He pulled out a round mirror, the kind they didn’t bother hiding in the ‘80s, and set it gently down on the coffee table. From a thin glass vial, he tapped out two tight white lines.

“Peruvian flake. 1983. From that last gig in Cartagena, remember?”

Ben dipped his pinky first and tasted it on his tongue. Still burned just right. He stared at the neat, shimmering lines like they were a goddamn miracle.

It had been forty fucking years.

He hadn’t touched coke since Reagan’s first term. His heart rate picked up just looking at it. He leaned down over the mirror, one finger closing a nostril, and inhaled the line in one clean, practiced motion.

The burn climbed straight to his brain and lit up every nerve ending like someone flipped a breaker. His eyes watered. His spine straightened like he’d just been recharged with jumper cables.

“Still burns like it used to.” Ben sniffed, nose tingling.

Legend grinned like a man watching the resurrection of a god. “Atta boy.”

“Now that’s the America I remember.” Ben dragged a hand down his face, leaned back against the couch, and let out a dark, satisfied chuckle. “You always did age like a cockroach. I figured if anyone made it, it’d be you.”

Legend laughed too hard and raised his glass, sitting down in a leather arm chair across from him. “They don’t make ‘em like us anymore.”

The men drank. After a few more quiet sips and more bumps of coke, Legend stood, dusted off his robe, and disappeared into a back room. He returned with a garment bag slung over one arm.

“Knew this day might come,” he said, grinning. “Couldn’t throw it away.”

Ben unzipped the bag and stared.

His suit. His real one. Emerald green, armor-ribbed, the star still proud on the chest. He could almost smell the battles in it. Almost hear the roar of the crowd.

He stood. “Shower?”

“Guest bathroom’s down the hall. Still stocked with aftershave from ‘87. Towels are clean.”

The bathroom was as opulent as the rest of the penthouse. Marble floors, a gold-trimmed mirror, a steam shower the size of a phone booth. Ben finally dropped the sweat suit, stepped under the spray, and let the water scald his skin – first real shower in fucking decades.

The grime peeled off in waves – Russian chemicals, blood, dirt, something green and sticky he didn’t ask questions about. He washed his hair twice. The beard had gotten too long, too wild. And as he finally stepped out of the shower–

“There you are,” he said with an almost amused sigh. At some point, he’d just accepted the fact that you were haunting his conscious.

Can’t fight the universe.

You sat on the counter next to the sink, smirk on your face, bare legs dangling over the edge – like fucking clockwork. “Missed me?”

Ben only nodded with a hum as he stepped up to the mirror above the sink. He wiped a circle clear on the fogged surface and stared for a long moment.

“You look like shit,” you noted and crossed your arms, giving him a scrutinizing sideways glance.

And yeah, Jesus fuck, he looked like he’d just crawled out of fuckin’ hell. Forty years of Commie torture and dark basements were written on his skin. He’d only seen daylight two times during his stay there – when they’d field-test the fucking Little Boy in his chest. And it had rained both goddamn times.

His eyes were sunken, the green a little faded. The beard made him look like a mountain man who lost his fuckin' mountain. He picked up the clippers. Hovered over the switch. He’d never really been a beard kind of guy. Vought had always insisted on a clean-shaven image.

“Keep it,” you said. “Give it a trim. I think it looks good. Dangerous. Edgy. Perfect for puttin’ the fear of God into your enemies.”

Ben smacked his lips and got to work. He trimmed the beard, shaping it into something neater and harder. He then grabbed a pair of scissors and cut his own hair with slow, methodical snips. Piece by piece, the ghost peeled away, and underneath it, something familiar started to reemerge.

“This is your time, right?” he finally spoke and peered at you from his periphery. “That fuckin’ flashlight was a phone, wasn’t it?”

You grinned cheekily. “Well, I couldn’t give that away. Can’t fault me for that.”

“Guess not,” he huffed a strand of hair out his face.

Ben then dried off, suited up, adjusted the straps. The fabric settled against his skin like it remembered him. Tight in the right places. The weight of the shield in his hand felt like gravity returning. He finally felt anchored again.

Less like a ghost, more like a weapon.

“You really sure about this?” you asked and gave him a look that was half-concerned and half-judgy. “Killing your old team? Your ex?”

Ben exhaled a deep breath through his nose but didn’t look at you, green eyes focused on his mirror image. “They betrayed me. Left me to rot.”

“Not like you didn’t deserve it,” you muttered under your breath, then tilted your head. “Am I on your hit list?”

Ben licked his lips and clicked his tongue. “Depends.”

Your brows pinched. “On what?”

Ben met your eyes. “If you fuckin’ left me on purpose.”

When he finally emerged from the bathroom, Legend whistled.

“Still looks good. You could be on the cover of Time again.”

Ben ignored that. “What happened to Payback?”

Legend hesitated, swirling the ice in his drink. “Split up. Disbanded. Most of ‘em are ghosts now. Black Noir’s made it into the new group – The Seven. Crimson Countess does livestreams now. Weird stuff.”

Ben didn’t know what that meant and didn’t care.

“Where is she?”

Legend hesitated. “You sure?”

Ben’s expression didn’t change.

“Alright, she’s local. I’ve got an address. But Ben – don’t expect her to cry when she sees you.”

“I’m not going for tears,” Ben said coldly.

Legend handed over a scrap of paper with her address scrawled on it. “You’re not who you used to be.”

Ben paused mid-way to the door and turned his head slightly. “I know,” he said. “That guy’s dead.”

And with that, he left the penthouse.

The wooded clearing was dead quiet as Ben stepped into it like it was a battlefield – except his eyes weren’t on the war anymore. The old trailer lights flickered in the distance, his boots crunching the gravel with heavy thuds.

And apparently, the universe had a fucking sense of humor.

Because the last person he’d expected to find in front of his ex-girlfriend’s trailer was his other ex-girlfriend – you. But Ben heard your voice before he even saw your face.

“Jesus, Butcher, I told you not to drug him. He’s gonna have a concussion,” you bitched.

Ben then recognized the second voice that answered you as well. Still that same British asshole from the lab.

“It’s fine, sunshine. Focus on the task at hand, yeah? We’ve got bigger fish to fry now than MM’s moral compass.”

Ben stepped closer till figures came into view. The British asshole was standing and found his gaze immediately with a wide smirk. But Ben’s eyes slid past the man, landing squarely on you, crouched down and tending to an unconscious guy by the trailer steps.

A flicker of anger roared alive inside of him. Familiar. Old. He’d carried it around with him for eighty years already, and a part of him wanted to see you burn for it.

For fucking lying. For ever darling to leave him.

But something stirred underneath the anger and hurt – longing.

For your voice, your body, your heart.

But you only glanced at him briefly – unfocused, unbothered. You looked pissed and worried, but none of it was for him. You sent a glare to the asshole in front of Ben before your attention slipped back to the man on the ground, checking his pulse and muttering a few more curses under your breath.

Did you–

Did you not recognize him?

Ben couldn’t entirely fault you for the lab. He’d crawled out of that pod a complete fucking mess. But now he looked more like himself again. Sure, maybe not the ‘42 version of him, but he hadn’t changed that much. Still as handsome as ever. Was it the fucking beard? Should he have shaved it after all?

The Brit then mumbled something about good faith and a team up, but Ben didn’t really listen. Whatever the fuck was going on here, you seemed to be a part of it, and he wasn’t going to lose your trail again.

Not now. Not ever.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d walk out of it alive, depending on how this would go – once he’d figured out what the hell was going on.

“What about her?” Ben gestured with his chin toward you once the asshole had finished his pitch. “Who’s she?”

“She’s one of you. Supe. Chronokinetic,” the guy told him and smirked. “Bit of a wildcard, but bloody handy in a pinch.”

So Ben had been right. He was almost proud of himself for solving that one.

But what the fuck were you doing here? Why were you so fucking calm around men with guns? This shouldn’t be your fucking life.

“Oi, sunshine. C’mere. Introduce yourself,” the Brit called you over.

You stood slowly and dusted off your jean shorts, muscles tense as Ben’s eyes pinned you in place like a knife through a photograph. You weren’t wearing a band shirt, a ‘40s dress, or even an overall this time. Just a plain black hoodie with white lettering that read: ‘Without geometry, life is pointless.’

Yeah, definitely you.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Ben asked, a charming but feigned smirk tugging at his lips, eyes squinting and grazing over you. Observing. Studying.

Still not a trace of recognition in your eyes.

Did you really not know him? Were you lying again? Might as well give it a shot and see what poured out.

And then you just gave him your name. No muss, no fuss, no lies. Like it wasn’t a big deal to begin with. You weren’t guarding it like a state secret or nuclear codes. Just your name, plain and simple.

“You know who I am?” Ben asked next and watched your face contort – brow knitted, nose scrunched, lips pursed. You thought he was fucking crazy – but definitely not someone you once shared a goddamn bed with.

“I mean, yeah,” you said and snorted an amused laugh. “You’re Soldier Boy. You were in my high school history books. My grandpa liked to talk about you when I was a kid.“

Ben bit his lips, hummed. Nodded. And he wasn’t sure yet what, but something had died inside of him.

The fuck–

What the hell was he supposed to do with that?

You clearly had no fuckin’ clue. Did you forget? Did you really not know? What the fuck did that even mean?

This was fuckin’ absurd.

The first hint of disappointment then crashed over Ben. Anger gone. Hurt gone. Just disappointment that you couldn’t remember the real him, that you didn’t recognize him beyond what the world knew. You knew Soldier Boy, and for the first time in eighty years, he realized you’d be disappointed in him, too.

Sure, his hallucinations of you had been plenty opinionated over his actions, but they’d also been easy to ignore. But this was the real you, and he wasn’t the guy he used to be anymore.

Coming here to fry his ex probably didn’t help…

“Alright, Doc. Time to give the man his gift,” the asshole said and nodded toward the trailer.

You sighed, rolled your eyes slightly but didn’t argue. You looked fucking bored – like this was a goddamn chore. You dragged your feet back and held the trailer door open for him.

One thing the real you and his hallucination had in common, however: they were both fucking judgy.

Yeah, this first meeting wasn’t ideal. You were already looking at him like you’d decided you hated him the minute he opened his mouth.

He knew that look well.

But you’d done that back then, too. It didn’t mean anything. He could still turn it around.

Ben moved past you into the dim light of the trailer, cluttered with relics of a woman clinging to the scraps of fame. You followed, and then the two of you just stood there by the entrance. He narrowed his eyes past the beaded curtain, and sure enough, there was Countess, tied up on a chair and frozen mid-wail.

Jesus…

“So, how does it work? Your powers?” Ben asked, his voice rough like gravel as he tried to keep it steady.

He pretended to be unbothered, curious only for the sake of the reason why he was here, but on the inside, he was trembling and itching.

Because you were right fucking there – so close that if he stretched out his pinky right now, he could touch yours. He could feel your warmth radiate off your skin and brush his. He could fucking smell you – a scent he had never forgotten and chased for over eight decades trying to find it again.

He never could.

He’d forgotten so fucking much. Hadn’t even realized it till the temptation returned. The longing was fucking winning.

Over anger. Over pain. Over everything.

All he wanted to do now was grab you and kiss you like there was no fucking tomorrow because there truly never was a guarantee there’d be another one.

But how? To you, he was just a name in a book. A ghost on a screen.

Not Ben. Not yours. Not his.

His mind was goddamn racing, his heart pounding. He could already feel the hum in his chest.

This was all too goddamn much.

“It’s like a remote control. I can push Pause on a single object, a room full of people… Theoretically, even the whole world, but that’d take a lot of juice,” you explained.

“Can’t swing that much?”

You shook your head.

Ben gave a nod.

“She can’t feel anything right now. Not until you tell me to push Play,” you added.

“Like a VHS tape?” Ben quirked a brow.

Your lips rose to a faint smile. “Yeah, exactly like that.”

“This all you can do? Fuckin’ freeze people?” Ben tried to act goddamn normal, but every time he glanced at you, his heart almost exploded. “Can’t you hop through time as well? Chronokinetics can do that shit, right? Like the Terminator?”

You gave a soft chuckle. “I mean, yeah, I used to jump through time.”

Ben’s brow furrowed. “Used to?”

“It doesn’t work anymore. Long story,” you replied and didn’t elaborate further. “But hey, unless, you want me to drop off your ex during an Ice Age, this should be enough, right?”

Ben swiped his tongue over his lips, nodding slowly, still thinking. Still trying to make sense of it all.

Were you telling the truth or were you lying? Did you really not know him or just pretending you didn’t? Should he say something? Ask you flat out?

No, not yet…

His eyes fixed back on Countess, still frozen like a turkey before it was shoved into an oven.

“Why did you freeze her, anyway? She’s already tied up. Seems like overkill,” Ben said, glancing at you sideways.

Your gaze was on Countess too, head tilted, brows scrunched. Watching. Thinking. Judging. Ben could see the cogs turning in your head. He knew that look of yours well.

“She was annoying Butcher,” you replied with a hint of amusement. “And frankly me. She’s kinda a bitch.”

“Tell me about it.” He snorted a scoff, then nodded toward the door. “And Butcher? He’s the asshole outside?”

You simply nodded, a faint smirk twitching on your lips.

“What’s his deal?”

Your amusement didn’t fade when you replied, “Much like you, he’s clinging to revenge fantasies. He’s CIA.”

Ben’s brows shot up. “That asshole’s CIA?”

“Yeah,” you snorted. “Didn’t buy it either when he knocked on my door, but it’s true.”

“And you’re CIA, too?”

“Uh, no…” you said slowly at first and hesitated. “I mean, now I guess I am. I’ve only known the guy for a month. I don’t usually get involved with all this supe shit.”

Supe shit.

The way you said it made Ben think you didn’t count yourself as one of them. Like you were something better. Above it all – especially the theatrics that came with it.

But Ben didn’t like any of it. Didn’t like you being here. Didn’t like you working with these people. Didn’t like how that asshole out there used you to do his bidding like you were some goddamn pet.

Made him fuckin' angry.

Ben arched an eyebrow, gave you a little smile – harmless like a lamb. “And what did you do instead then, sweetheart? Before all this?”

“I was a physics professor at a small college in Canada,” you replied.

Huh. That fit. Fit with what you’d told him. And it made more sense to him than anything else in this world – more sense than seeing you here in the middle of this shit.

“You know, I can keep her like that, and you can just do your thing,” you noted carefully. “That way she won’t feel anything.”

Ben’s jaw tightened, his gaze swerving back to Countess. “No, I want her to fuckin’ feel it,” he said after a beat.

Your head bobbed thoughtfully. “You sure about that?”

Ben looked at you then, eyes finding yours. His heart stuttered. He almost smiled, thinking his hallucinations of you had never been far off.

But you were… real.

You might have lied to him about parts of your life – about who you truly were or where you came from – but underneath it all, you were still undeniably you. Still judging, still observing, still asking impossible question he never really had an answer to.

He swallowed once and kept his eyes on you as he spoke, “She lied to my face. Said she loved me but then fuckin’ left when I needed her the most.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t twitch a single muscle, like those words had no affect on you at all. You just listened and stared at him with a trace of sympathy in your eyes.

“Yeah, I saw what they did to you, you know?” you said. “Your old team. In Nicaragua.”

Ben’s brow furrowed. “How?”

“I can… glimpse into moments of time, too,” you explained. “Past, mostly. Future’s still fluctuating. Not as certain. Too many variables. But I can tell you who wins the next Super Bowl.”

You gave him a little grin. He matched it.

“Who?”

“Chiefs.”

Ben grunted, rolling his eyes back.

You giggled softly, the sound snaking into his heart. “You a Giants fan, huh?”

“Eagles.”

“Huh. Really?”

“I’m from Philly,” he found himself saying.

And then suddenly, it all became too much. Too fucking real. You had no idea who he was, who he’d been. You didn’t know him at all.

And what, was he supposed to pretend he didn’t know every part of you already, either? He wasn’t sure he could do that. How the fuck did he end up here?

Fuckin’ absurd…

His eyes landed back on his other ex tied to a chair. If he wanted a future with you, he had to clean up his past first. But he didn’t want you to see who he’d become. He just wanted you to see who he’d been.

“You’re gonna keep chattin’ or get the fuck out now? Don’t need a fuckin’ audience for this,” he said, colder now. He didn’t want you to watch. Maybe to protect you or maybe to protect himself. He wasn’t sure which one it was yet.

But he was determined to drag you out of this fucking mess with both hands.

‘Sides, what was he supposed to fucking do anyway? Walk back out there and say he’d changed his mind because the smartass with tits had a heart to heart with him?

No fuckin’ way.

He had to portray strength to his fucking enemies, or they’d come for him again. Sure, Ben hadn’t cared about shit, but if there was one thing he’d learned – no one else did fucking either.

But more importantly, a supe like you? The world would be coming for you.

To use you. To kill you.

You were too naive, too good, too fucking soft to see that. But he wasn’t – and he’d take fucking care of it.

Your brow scrunched at his harsher tone in that same miffed way of yours. It always had. It’s how he knew it’d work. You’d be fine.

“Gee, as you wish, asshole,” you huffed and then stomped your little feet back outside.

And as soon as the door swung shut behind you, Crimson Countess roared back to life – at least for the next ten minutes before it all went up in flames.

The asshole managed to pick the shittiest motel straight off the highway. It stank of mold, old cigarette smoke, and bleach. This was where someone came to murder fucking hookers – not have a goddamn reunion after eighty years with the love of their life.

But alas, here he was, in a bathroom with rusty red rims around the drains, as if people had already been dismembered by the fucking mob in here.

He’d washed of the grit and grime, the smoke and ash of earlier and found himself in a pair of gray sweats that fit a little too loose and a goddamn Giants jersey. You’d gotten it for him at a gas station. Gave it to him with a tiny smirk, like you were messing with him on purpose because he’d been unreasonably mean to you earlier.

And boy, had you fucking judged him once he’d walked out of that trailer – well, whatever had been left of it anyway. You didn’t say a word, not the whole car ride here, just glared at him every once in a while and let him feel it.

Luckily, that wasn’t entirely new. You’d done that to him in the past as well – the silent treatment, that fucking pout… Whenever he’d done something back then that irked you, you’d let him stew in it. Sometimes you’d even punished him for it – and not in the fucking fun way. Especially whenever he’d underestimated you, you’d hit him with a mental slap so hard his head was still spinning hours later. He’d secretly loved it, though. Turned him the fuck on.

But from experience he knew – your anger would pass. It always did.

For now, though, you were here, chatting outside this very bathroom with a British asshole and some scrawny kid that looked like he’d pissed himself after his girlfriend yelled a little at him.

But God, your fuckin’ voice…

He hadn’t heard that sound in decades – not the real thing at least. And the original was goddamn better than the stupid recording in his skull.

“Where are you guys off to?” your honeyed melody flowed through the thin wall – suspicious, pissed.

Those idiots out there thought he couldn’t hear them. But Ben could even hear the couple fucking three doors down.

“Supply run,” the asshole replied. “The patriotic princess in there gave us a ryder like he’s fuckin’ Mariah Carey. You’re on Cold War nuke duty, sunshine, while me and little Hughie go out there and shake down a cuppa dealers.”

Who the fuck is Mariah Carey?

“Wait, what?” String Bean threw in.

“Don’t worry 'bout it,” the asshole dismissed.

“Do I look like a fucking babysitter for a nuclear warhead to you?” you huffed. “I’m about to freeze both of you and walk out of here.”

Nuclear warhead? Babysitter?!

“Alright, alright,” the asshole soothed. “Look, sunshine, hate to break it to ya, but if grandpa in there goes nuclear again, you’re the only one who can cool down the bloody core, so to speak.”

Ah. So that was why they were leaving you with him – you were his goddamn fail-safe. Fuckin’ great…

“Oh, so you want me to freeze the Fat Man in there every time he’s about to fucking drop,” you realized dryly.

The fuck–

“Smart as always,” the asshole confirmed.

“Well, you know, there’s, like, a lot of people in this motel, and he’s not… stable,” String Bean said, voice weak and jittering, probably giving you a fucking puppy dog look on top of it. “You said so yourself.”

You have?

“Yeah, what he said, Doc.”

Ben could hear the asshole’s triumphant smirk through the goddamn door.

“‘Sides, would be nice if we could catch a couple hours of sleep. Maybe? Please?” The kid’s voice was pleading, and Ben knew you’d break at that whiny tone.

You exhaled a deep sigh, capitulated as expected. Ben waited a couple more minutes after they left, spritzed cold water on his face before feeling ready enough to face you.

When the bathroom door creaked open, you didn’t look up. He found you sitting on one of the beds, glowing rectangle in your hands, thumb gliding over the sleek surface like it was second nature. The phone flickered with light and colors like a handheld television from some alien planet, while you were all angles and distance, backlit by a blue hue.

Ben cleared his throat, but you didn’t even glance up.

“Bathroom didn’t explode. Guess that’s progress,” you commented wryly.

He pursed his lips, biting the insides of his cheeks. The room felt fucking suffocating. What was the goddamn plan here? Was he just supposed to talk to you and act like any of this was fucking normal?

He needed more goddamn answers. Drugs. Booze. Somethin’.

“So, they stuck you with babysittin’ duty, huh?” Ben asked with a small chuckle, trying to break the ice. Trying to bond. Talk to you like he used to.

“Yup,” you said and popped the p, still not looking up. “If you’re gonna be a good boy and not blow up, I’ll get you a juice box, some crayons, and a coloring book.”

Ben frowned, smacked his lips, and bobbed his head, sauntering over to the dresser where Butcher had put down the bottle of cheap whiskey.

Yeah, he needed some goddamn booze to survive this night…

“You know, I could hear you guys in there,” Ben noted lightly and flicked his chin toward the bathroom.

“I know.”

He then sighed a little and ran a hand through his hair. “You called me a nuclear warhead.”

“You are a nuclear warhead,” you replied unapologetically, eyes still focused on the screen.

“So…” Ben started, ignoring your little jab with a deep exhale. “You and that asshole?”

“What about it?” You still didn’t give him the time of day. Didn’t even flinch or shift.

And all Ben could think about was how you once looked at him like he hung the goddamn moon for you.

“You two a thing?” He tried to sound casual – not like a positive answer would cause him to torch this entire dump.

You snorted a loud laugh at that and finally looked at him. “What? No.”

Your nose scrunched, and Ben’s heart calmed slightly till the next thought crossed his mind.

“What about the twig? The one who looks like he’d snap in a stiff wind?”

You arched an eyebrow. “Who? Hughie?”

Ben hated how you said that name – caring, fond, familiar. You always had a soft spot for the weaklings.

“Yeah,” Ben grunted and gulped down a big sip of whiskey straight from the bottle.

Luckily, you chuckled in amusement. “No, nothing going on there. Hughie is like a little brother I have to keep from accidentally killing himself.”

Yeah, that makes sense, Ben thought with relief and felt his chest unclench. Just another kid playing soldier…

“Why are you asking about my love life?” you prompted with a suspicious smile, making his shoulders flinch subtly.

“‘M not,” Ben brushed it off casually with a sniff of his nose. “Just wondering how a smart girl like you ended up with that crew of fuckups.”

“It’s complicated,” you said simply and turned your focus back to your phone.

“Bet it is,” he muttered under his breath and took another gulp of whiskey. “Care to fuckin’ elaborate?”

“Not really…”

Ben rubbed his eyes, then his temples. Jesus fuck, you were harder to crack than the goddamn Zodiac Killer code. Had it been this hard the first time around, too? He couldn’t remember exactly, but he recalled he had to work for it back in ‘42 as well.

“Alright, just tell me what I’m gettin’ into here,” he said honestly, trying a new angle.

You looked up then, titled your head, and blew out a sigh between your lips. “Alright, fine. Butcher found me about a month ago. Wanted me to find a weapon.”

“Weapon?” Ben’s brow furrowed, keeping the whiskey bottle attached to his lips.

Your lips rose to a wry smile. “Yeah, you.”

Ben swallowed, drank more, and tried to ignore the tear in his gut. A weapon. So that was what you saw him as now – not someone to love, not a boyfriend. Just a walking nuke in need of round-the-clock supervision.

Great. That really put a dent into his romantic dinner plans.

“Well, technically, Butcher wanted me to find the weapon that killed you,” you clarified. “They discovered your death in Ohio was a cover-up by Vought. Frenchie has contacts in the Russian mob or something, I guess. He works for Butcher, too.” You shook your head, clearing your wandering mind. “Anyways, they found out about a botched operation in Nicaragua, so Butcher wanted me to look where the weapon is now.”

“With that little glimpsing thing of yours?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed, smiling in a way that made his heart ache. “Turned out the Russians didn’t kill you.”

“Damn straight they didn’t.” Ben nodded and downed more whiskey. He was already halfway through the bottle. Good thing the asshole went out on that supply run.

“But Butcher still wanted to find out how they knocked you out,” you said with a small grin. Teasing. “So he booked plane tickets to Russia.”

Ben nodded slowly, letting the information settle. “What does he need a weapon for?”

You let out a long breath, lips curling. “I’m sure he’s gonna tell you that himself. Can’t give away the big surprise. He kinda lives for that.”

Ben’s brow wrinkled, but he didn’t press. Frankly, he didn’t care enough to. He just wanted answers about you. “Why did you agree to help? You don’t seem like the type to get involved in all this… supe shit.”

You laughed a little, twitched your brows. “Yeah, I usually don’t. I honestly never had much contact with the others. And the few I’ve met so far were…” You licked your plush lips, trying to find the right words.

Ben found them for you.

“Psychotic little freaks?”

You snorted and nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“So, why are you helping that British twat?” Ben ventured a little further.

Your head bobbed thoughtfully for a moment, like you were deciding if you could trust him or not. Ben ignored the stabbing feeling in his ribcage.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” you said, then bit down on your lower lip – thinking. “In physics, we have something called the Second Law of Thermodynamics. It describes how in a closed system, entropy always increases over time.”

Jesus fucking Christ, he’d forgotten about that part – the endless physics lectures. At least back then, he’d get rewarded for listening – with you taking his cock into your mouth.

Now he’d just get the words without the fucking.

“Meaning…?” he played along as his fucking migraine started.

“Things naturally fall apart. Systems tend toward chaos, not order. It means you have to expend energy to maintain structure,” you explained with a small smile.

Ben mirrored it, finally understanding why you’d always loved standing in front of a blackboard.

Professor. Yeah, that made fucking sense now. You’d always gotten so turned on by teaching him shit.

Were you turned on right now, too? Ben was sure he could probably get you to fuck him. If he just upped the charm and went fully in, he could make you writhe underneath him tonight.

But then what? He needed to figure this shit out first.

“If we apply that to the modern world, we’re watching a complex societal system steadily lose coherence,” you continued. “Institutions are eroding. Trust is decaying. Information systems are overloaded. We’re heading toward maximum disorder – fast.”

Ben scoffed a chuckle. “Is this your way of telling me the world’s ending, sweetheart?”

“No, Earth will be fine. Humanity won’t be,” you said matter-of-factly. Logically. “Look, I don’t… agree with all of Butcher’s methods, but without intentional energy, we’ll spiral into decay. Entropy loves apathy. It starts with ‘who cares,’ ends with ‘Heil whatever.’ And sure, I could’ve stayed home, not gotten involved, and told myself it wasn’t my fucking problem, but eventually, decay would’ve come for me, too. Fascism thrives on unconsciousness. History always fucking repeats itself.”

“Ain’t that right,” Ben huffed in agreement with another sip of his drink. But something else tugged at him.

It all struck a nerve deep inside him. He had seen a lot of shit over the decades, but he’d never cared about it. Played hero for the glory and the money, but you spoke with such conviction as if you actually believed in the product you were selling.

You scoffed, tilting your head at him. “Really? You agree?”

Ben remained calm, even though he could see the challenging gleam in your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean, hm? I fought for my fuckin’ country.”

“Right.” You gave him a nod – sarcastic to the bone. Then you slowly leaned forward on your knees – collected, fearless, not backing the fuck down. “You killed my friend’s family back in the ‘80s. Called it collateral. You went after people till there was no one left when they came for you. You’re the fucking poster boy for decay. You talk like you’re fighting the rot, but you’re just part of the problem. You’re all manufactured patriotism, empty slogans, and fists over facts. Tell me – when’s the last time you actually cared about something that wasn’t your own goddamn ego?”

Well, fuck him. Brains won over brawn once again. He tried not to show how deep your words truly cut. His hallucination of you always called him fucking hollow. Seemed like real you did, too.

Ben nodded, clicked his tongue, and gave you a tight smile. “Not a fan, huh?”

“No.”

Simple, cold, and brutally honest. Just like you always had been. Made his heart swell for all the wrong reasons.

Ben’s face twitched. He could’ve argued. Said that the last time he cared about something, he’d cared about you. He could’ve even slipped on the mask like he would’ve done if anyone else had said that shit to him. Said some bullshit about how he wasn’t the rot, but the one that survived it. But instead, he went for something in between:

“You don’t know shit about me, sweetheart. Trust me.”

“I know enough,” you muttered just as quick and returned to your phone, not bothering to argue further.

Ben locked his jaw tight, clenched his fists subtly by his sides. So that was what you truly thought about him, huh? But the worst part was how fucking right you were in your assessment – and how much it fucking hurt.

Click, click, click.

Your eyes flicked to another strange device on the nightstand, brow furrowing as lights of green, yellow, and red flashed alive. Then your gaze landed on him.

“The fuck is that?” Ben gestured to the item in question.

“It’s a Geiger counter. Measures radiation. Tells me when you’re close to blowing a fuse,” you explained, narrowing your eyes at him, head tilting again. “Apparently, it’s tied to your emotions. Interesting. Is your pulse spiking?”

Fucking Christ on a cross…

“Turn it off,” he growled. He didn’t want a stupid little box to tell you when he was getting upset like some goddamn hall monitor.

“No,” you bit back with that fiery look in your eyes. “I’m trying to keep a block of civilians safe from you.”

“Just fuckin’ freeze me when I start glowing. That’s what you’re fuckin’ here for, right? How’s that?”

“Too risky,” you countered. Didn’t expand on your answer like you thought he was too stupid to understand it.

“Why?” Ben gritted through his teeth.

You let out an exhaustive sigh and contemplated something again. But after a beat, you seemed to cave. “It’s not that simple. Your powers–… the little nuclear reactor in your chest?”

“What about it?” Ben asked gruffly but slumped down on the second bed across from you, ready to listen nonetheless.

You licked your lips, surely weighing how much you could share without getting into trouble. Like he still couldn’t be fucking trusted.

“You don’t just go off like a regular bomb. As soon as you emit enough radiation, supes around you also lose their abilities. I think it’s because the nuclear energy reacted and bonded with the Compound V in your system in some way. Probably to help your body withstand that much energy. But back at the lab, you hit a friend of mine. You burnt the V right outta her. Made her human.”

Ben was quiet for a minute – a rarity. Good to know. And fucking bad for his enemies, which he had plenty of. But it also meant something else.

“So you can’t freeze me anymore when I’m too far gone. That what you’re sayin'?”

You nodded and smiled like he’d gotten an A on a test. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”

Ben sighed and ran a hand over his face, drumming his palms on his thighs. “Alright,” he said at last. “Keep the fuckin' thing on, I guess.”

Frankly, he didn’t care as much about the junkies, prostitutes, and other scum in this shithole that could potentially die from his fallout. But he fucking cared about your safety.

Also wouldn’t be in his interest if you lost your fucking powers. He’d fling himself off a building if he had to keep playing pretend with you forever. The last few hours had already scorched him from the inside out.

“As you wish,” you said, but he caught the little winning smirk twitching on your lips.

It almost made him goddamn smile.

Ben rubbed his jaw then, watching you for a moment. You were right fucking there. And still, he couldn’t just reach out. It seemed like some goddamn cosmic joke. The Reds might’ve been done torturing him, but the universe clearly wasn’t.

And you obviously weren’t, either.

“Look, uhm, maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” Ben said, clearing his throat a little. “I’m not the same guy anymore, alright? Maybe I changed. Isn’t there some physics law for that shit too that you could apply?”

You smiled – genuine this time. And fuck, did it make his heart burn alive like it hadn’t in decades.

He still knew how to talk to you – like riding a fucking bike. Like you’d never fucking left.

“Newton’s First Law,” you replied.

“See? Well, let’s go with that,” he agreed casually and leaned back against the headboard, feet up, satisfied.

You snorted slightly and cocked an eyebrow. “Do you even know what it means?”

“Do I need to?” Ben raised his brow, although he knew the answer already, but he let you talk anyway, listened to your voice in his ears like it was gospel.

Because to him, it fucking was.

You giggled softly, the sound like warm honey. “Kinda, yeah. Would probably help. It just means that a person in motion stays in motion in the same direction – unless something acts on them. You don’t change paths because you want to. You change because something hits you hard enough to knock you off your trajectory.”

Ben nodded, drank a little more, then gave you another tight-lipped smile. “Well, consider me fuckin’ hit, sweetheart.”

And he was – by you.

“Guess we’ll see,” you replied with a part-intrigued and part-challenging shimmer in your eyes, but for once you seemed happy with his answer.

And thank fucking God for that. He wasn’t sure how many rounds he could’ve still held up before you’d knocked out his fucking brain.

“But maybe you’re not wrong,” you added and bit your lip, surprising him. “I mean, Vought did you dirty, right? Maybe you can finally use all that energy and anger you have and aim it at something that deserves it.”

“You bet your ass I will,” he said. Smirked. And your lips even hiked up a little. “So that’s what this little dysfunctional group is about? You guys wanna bring down fuckin’ Vought?”

“In a way, yeah. It’s part of it,” you replied as mysterious and closed off as ever.

Some things really never fucking changed.

“Alright, tell me somethin’. I’m curious. What beef you got with Vought?” he asked slyly. Felt fucking smug for being so clever. “I mean, you’re a chronokinetic or whatever. Rare ability, right? Powerful, too. ‘M sure they had their greedy claws all over you. What, got tired of being their little puppet?”

“I never was their puppet,” you said. “And sure, chronokinesis can be a… powerful, messy, possibly disastrous ability, which is why they probably wanted to kill me in the first place.”

“They, what?” His head snapped toward you.

“Don’t look so shocked,” you said with an amused snort like it wasn’t a big deal. “Vought was scared I could mess up the timeline, fuck with their business too much... You think someone like Stan Edgar is gonna risk keeping that around? There’s powerful, and then there’s too powerful. One’s useful, one’s a threat. You know that better than anyone.”

Ben nodded slowly, the words sinking in. “Stan Edgar? That bastard’s still around?”

“Yeah, he’s the CEO of Vought now.”

That slimy fucking asshole. Of course he was. Legend wasn’t the only one that survived like a goddamn cockroach.

“He the one that threatened you?” Ben tried to sound fucking calm, but he was grinding his molars down to dust.

“Yeah, he thought I was gonna mess up… history, I guess,” you said. “I didn’t really use my abilities in that way, though.”

Ben’s brow knitted slightly, putting the bottle back to his lips. He squinted his eyes, watched you closely. “How did you use ‘em?”

You pursed your lips, so he clocked instantly that you’d done some shit. They all fucking had – supes, that is. Ben understood the temptation only too well. The only question was:

What was your goddamn poison?

“You know… fun stuff. Things that made life a little easier. Like more time on homework or pranking very… bitchy classmates. Sometimes used it to teach people a lesson.”

Well, shit. Looked like he’d gotten himself a little trickster on his hands. Adorable – and fuckin’ exhausting.

He gave you a little smirk. Charming. Coaxing. “That all, sweetheart? Skip the high school years.”

And there it was – a little twinkle in your eyes. He still got it, and you still fucking fell for it.

“Well…” Your lip looked almost swollen the way you’d been chewing that thing. Made him fuckin’ crazy. “You know, I went to see historical events I was curious about or talk to famous scientists and philosophers… Went to concerts of old bands. Like sixties, seventies…”

Sixties. Old. Ben snorted internally at the pain in his chest.

“So you partied a little and talked to a bunch of dead nerds,” he summarized wryly.

He could handle that. Shut that shit down, even. Keep you in line.

“Guess so.” You giggled, cheeks turning a little rosy. “But I was always careful not to screw anything up. Never shared too much. Never stayed anywhere longer than three days. Except the last time.”

Ben’s jaw moved a little. “What happened last time? Where d’you go?”

“Middle Ages – on accident. There was a… glitch. Got stuck there for a week.”

Ben stalked one, two steps closer to you. “Stuck, huh?”

“Yeah, but before that, it was pretty awesome,” you said, a little grin crossing your lips. “I even had this whole birthday tradition of working through my bucket list of the coolest things history had to offer.”

Well, well, look how far a little smirk’ll get’cha…

Had he been on your bucket list? Was that why you came there? He couldn’t really blame you if that was the case. He’d had groupies before.

But you weren’t a fan, were you?

So, did you get stuck in ‘42? Was that why you stayed? Why you left?

“And how did you get out? Vought had you in their sights, right? I know they don’t lose track of their assets, and you’re clearly not in a body bag,” Ben noted slyly, smirking even though the thought hurt. “So, who did you break, burn, or bribe?”

You gave him a raised look. “No one,” you replied. “I still had my full abilities back then. Little hard to catch me.”

Oh, he knows…

“I disappeared to 1925 Paris. I met Paul Langevin at one of Gertrude Stein’s parties there,” you said, and Ben nodded like he knew who those fucking people were. Probably physicists, so who the fuck really cared? “He told me about McGill University in Canada. Went there the next day – my present time – stole some dead person’s ID, and kept my head down for the next few years. Got my PhD in Quantum Gravity.”

Ben didn’t even pretend to understand any of that. He also knew asking you more questions about it would only lead to more complicated words.

He understood gravity. It made things fucking fall. What more was there to know?

And then, suddenly, a memory hit him like a goddamn backhand to the face.

1983. That stupid meeting he had with Edgar. He’d put you on Vought’s radar back then, running his mouth like a fucking dumbass. And Edgar, that smug piece of shit, filed it away and fucking waited for you. Waited for Ben not to be around and protect you.

Stan had always been ten fucking steps ahead, hadn’t he?

Ben swore in that moment he’d kill the guy. Not like Stan hadn’t already been on his list, but now he’d make sure he’d enjoy it too – tearing that asshole apart piece by fucking piece. Slowly.

His blood was boiling, but he wasn’t just mad at Edgar. He was mostly mad at himself – and he hated admitting that more than anything else. But it was all his fucking fault, wasn’t it?

Ben was the reason you were here. He was the reason why Vought had hunted you. He was the reason why no one had protected you. Why you worked with all these assholes and put yourself in danger.

Because he hadn’t been there when you’d needed him the most. Hadn’t been the man he was supposed to be – the one he’d promised you he’d be.

You shouldn’t fucking be here.

Click, click, click, CLIIICK…

The Geiger counter’s needle spiked dangerously into the red. Your eyes flicked to the device, then warily to him.

Ben hated that fucking thing.

“You good?”

“Peachy,” he grumbled.

“You sure?”

His glare slowly wandered to you. “I said I’m fine.”

You pursed your lips and raised your hands in surrender, letting it go. “Maybe we should talk about something else.”

Ben exhaled a frustrated breath and shook his head clear. “No, look, I’m good, alright? Promise,” he assured you, and your shoulders lost a little bit of their tension. “So you hauled up in Canada with the fucking leaf lickers for the past few years, huh?”

Your lips involuntarily curled into a smile. You tried to push it down – unsuccessfully. Ben felt like he won the goddamn Super Bowl. Fuck the Chiefs.

“Yep, lived in a cabin off the grid,” you said. “But it was kinda a blessing in disguise, you know?”

Ben’s brow pinched doubtfully. “How so? ‘Cause you got to date fuckin’ lumberjacks with moose breath?”

“Jesus,” you snorted, laughing. “What’s with the obsession over my dating life?”

“Nothin’,” he lied and shrugged it off. Gave you a lazy smirk. “Just making polite conversation.”

Phew. You bought that, right?

You quirked a brow. “That’s your idea of polite?”

“Shut up,” he grumbled. “What d’you know about it, huh? You’ve been living under a rock and buried in books for–… well, I don’t know how long, but I’m guessin’ it’s been a while since you can’t even hold a goddamn conversation like a normal fuckin’ person.”

“Says the guy who’s been frozen since the nineties,” you quipped. You then leaned your head softly back against the headboard and sighed almost theatrically – like you’d held that one in for hours already. “I can’t wait to get back to my old life. I miss my grad students.”

Ben watched you then for a long time. Didn’t even care to hide it. He’d seen that look in your eyes before – that… dread. You’d had it as well when he first met you. He understood it more now.

You’d been missing something, hadn't you?

“How old are you anyway?” he prompted, taking you by surprise. He cleared his throat more casually, got rid of the rasp in his voice and the awkwardness on his tongue. “I mean… you look a little young for a professor. You’re, what? Twenty? Twenty-… four, maybe?”

Luckily, you only laughed softly at his… well, whatever the fuck that was.

“Uh, flattering, but no. I’m twenty-nine.”

Twenty–… WHAT?!

His brain was fuckin’ hurtin'.

So, 2022 minus 29 was like… Nope. 42 plus 24… Nope, that didn’t sound right either. 2022 minus 24 plus 29… What the fuck was he missing?

You’d told him you were twenty-four in ‘42, but now you were twenty-nine, which meant… Well, what the hell did it mean?

Shit.

You should remember him, right? That was the whole goddamn point. He didn’t need fucking math for that answer.

So, what? Was it memory loss? Was he supposed to kiss you awake like you were some goddamn Disney princess?

No, he figured that wouldn’t go over well either just by looking at you right now. You still didn’t like him a whole lot.

What the hell did it mean?

Click, click, click, click…

Goddammit!

“Are you okay?” As expected, you cocked your head and looked at him like he was a toddler with a flamethrower. “You want some weed?”

His head lifted, eyes blinking. His brow raised. “You packin’?”

Well, there was something fun the two of you had never done together before.

“I bought some earlier at the gas station,” you replied, shrugging your shoulders.

“At the gas station?” His brow furrowed.

“Yeah, they had a shop there.”

“A shop?”

“What is this, Jeopardy?” you retorted before your eyes widened almost apologetically. “Oh, right! You don’t know. It’s legal now. You can just go in a store and buy it.”

“That shit’s legal now?”

You grinned, all teeth and sunshine. “Pretty cool, right?”

He huffed a sigh and let his head fall back, staring at the clattering AC in the ceiling. “First good news I’ve heard all week…”

And he meant it.

Ben then watched you pull a little vile from your jeans pocket and grab a small tin box from the nightstand. But as he tried to take it from you, you slapped his reaching hand away, which – bold fucking move.

But you didn’t seem to care. Didn’t twitch. Just carried on – like he couldn’t punch a hole into you.

It was sort of nice. You treated him like he was normal (well, sort of if he excluded the annoying clicking thing). But he couldn’t remember the last time anyone’s treated him like that.

And Ben didn’t know if it was the V in your blood and the fact you could just fuckin’ freeze people like they were some mere vegetables that made you so daring, or if it was just… you.

“Just trust me. I got this. This is your first time in a while, right?” you said, sounded excited even. He nodded slowly. “‘M gonna make it fucking hit.”

Did you ever fucking hear yourself sometimes?

“I’m not a virgin, y’know?” he retorted, smirking, but his eyes drifted to your skilled fingers as they rolled their little arts and crafts project.

“Oh, you are when it comes to this,” you said, tongue sticking out between your teeth in concentration. Drove him fuckin’ nuts. “You ever had a cross joint?”

He swayed his head from side to side, hummed. “Heard of it. Never had the pleasure.”

“Well, you’re about to be fucking pleasured.” You grinned all cheeky and smug, making his goddamn heart flip.

Seriously, did you not fucking hear yourself?!

“You know, there’s other ways to pleasure me, sweetheart.” He smirked. You didn’t say anything, just cocked your brow, waiting for him to talk circles around himself. And he did. “Just sayin’, it’s been forty years since I had some goddamn pussy.”

Your lips rose to a smile – amused. “And you’re going for a pity fuck?”

“Wouldn’t be pity, sweetheart. Trust me,” he replied smugly, gave you his most charming grin that always used to get your panties fucking wet.

The amusement grew on your face. “Trust me. It would be.”

He frowned. Sighed. “Whatever, suit yourself,” he huffed. “Your fuckin’ loss.”

Worth a shot.

Was this gonna take him fuckin’ months again? He’d already fucked you. What was the goddamn big deal? And now, you were right there. He could touch you. He could, couldn’t he?

Fucking absurd…

“And what a loss that is,” you retorted teasingly and went straight back to building your little weed airplane.

“You know what I don’t get–” he started, but you cut right in.

“I’m guessing a lot.”

Ben pursed his lips, swallowed another sigh down. “Careful.”

You looked up and blinked. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just–… you missed forty years of pop culture and technological advancement. Gotta be confusing. A lot happened since the ‘80s.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he muttered, his eyes drifting to the little sleek, black box next to you on the mattress. “So, that’s what counts as a phone these days, huh?”

Your gaze followed his. “Oh yeah, but it’s more than that. It’s a camera, a photo album, a TV, a shopping list, a… Walkmen.”

“Flashlight?”

“Yup.” You grabbed the phone and a light flared up with the tap of your finger. “Very handy when you need to pee at night.”

Fuck me.

Ben’s brow knitted more, eyes narrowing at the device. “Is that why everyone keeps staring at that thing like it’s a Sears catalogue and they just hit the lingerie section?”

“Something like that, yeah.” You snorted a laugh. “Guess it is a bad habit of the 21st century. Kinda guilty of doom scrolling myself. Pretty sure it’s part of our little entropy problem.”

“Didn’t understand a single word of that,” he said, chewing his bottom lip.

“Trust me. You’re lucky you don’t,” you said and then brought the half-finished joint to your lips, wet the paper with your pink tongue, and rolled it into a tight little stick between your delicate fingers.

God, he was fucking jealous of that thing.

“Is it done?”

“No. Now comes the best part. You’re gonna like this one,” you said and gave him a little smirk again. “Now, we make a small hole into the big one and thread the other one through it.”

And then you did just that, and Ben watched you make art out of junk again like he’d done so many times before, just spending endless afternoons sitting next to you in the shed, chatting your ear off and trying to poke holes into your walls while you performed brilliant little miracles.

“Look at this baby.” You grinned proudly and held up your creation. “It’s a marvel of combustion engineering.”

Fucking shoot him now.

“Christ, you’re even nerdy when it comes to fuckin’ drugs,” he muttered, sighing. And God, was he getting hard.

“How can you not be?” You smiled, unbothered, just happy in all your nerdy glory. “It’s a trifurcated burn front. You’re maximizing both surface area and burn velocity with this thing.”

Fuckin' cute.

“What that mean in fucking English?” he deadpanned.

“You get stupid high and it looks cool as hell,” you said, smirking wide, and handed the mother of all joints to him.

“How do I light this little science fair project?” Ben asked as he put the filtered tip between his lips and hauled out the Zippo from his pocket.

You grabbed not one but two more lighters from your little box, gave him a countdown like you were launching a fucking rocket to the moon, and then you lit the two ends on the sides while he did the middle one.

And Jesus fuck, did it hit.

He swallowed smoke and tried not to cough like a fucking pussy. He still huffed out a deep laugh with a cloud of weed. “Fuck me, you’re like the Cosby of fuckin’ joints, sweetheart.”

You gave him a look. “Uhm…”

“It’s a compliment.”

“Not sure about that one,” you mumbled in sing-song. “Does it help?”

Ben smirked lazily. “Best damn babysitter I ever had.”

“Well, as long as you don’t blow us all up now, I count it as a win,” you said and got up, plopping down on the old couch in the room, phone in hand.

“You want to?” Ben held out the reefer to you, but you shook your head.

“No, I’m good.”

He sighed a little again. So much for his plan to get you fucking high and crawl between your thighs. But he was a persistent motherfucker, and ‘giving up’ wasn’t really part of his vocabulary.

You used to steal his cigarettes and drinks. Now, look at you. What the fuck happened?

“So, tell me about me you,” he prompted, watching you from the corner of his eye.

“Why?”

Jesus fuck.

“Just answer the question,” he retorted with a huff and a thin thread of patience. “I’m tryna make conversation. Hadn’t had one in a while with someone who speaks fuckin’ English. Not that you count. You don’t speak fucking English either most times.”

You smiled a little at that, amused. “Fair enough,” you relented and gave him your full attention then, folding your hands over your knees and leaning forward. “What d’you wanna know? First grade basics? Favorite color? Do I like unicorns?”

Ben scowled. “You know, back in my day, women were a little different.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘oppressed,’” you quipped all fucking smug.

His frown deepened, but he decided to move past it, knowing better than to fucking argue with you about that one. Wasn’t the first time he heard it, either. But Ben knew you'd been fucking happy back then. He'd made you happy.

Now you were treating him like he was the goddamn enemy of the state.

How did he fucking end up here? That shit surely hadn’t been on his damn bingo card.

He was supposed to have a house and kids and maybe a dog if you wanted one. He was supposed to watch you tinker on little inventions, get fucking rich, and live happily next to you till he dropped dead at a reasonable age.

That had been the dream. Simple, really.

And now? Now, he sat in a shitty motel, 103-years-old and a nuclear bomb, with a 74-years-younger girlfriend (he finally did the math), who couldn’t even fucking remember him. Never married. Never had kids. Never even had a fucking gold fish. Technically homeless as of this moment. And poor. And fake dead.

Fucking absurd.

But still, he found the silver lining – he could finally receive answers to questions he’d been asking himself for fucking decades.

“How about you just cut the sarcasm back a little and tell me where you grew up, huh? Can’t be that hard to fuckin’ answer,” he muttered.

Oh, but it was, wasn’t it? You never could tell him that. Guarded it like you knew where fucking Jesus went after his resurrection.

“Jersey.”

“Huh.” Ben stumped. Well, that was fucking easy this time ‘round. Jersey girl. Who knew?

“Grew up in a trailer park,” you added.

“No shit.” Ben tried to seem unaffected, but something curled inside of him. “That why you became a supe? Hoping it’s your ticket out?”

He couldn’t really blame you. He fell for that stupid trap himself. Even his reasons had been the same – escape the life he had. It could happen to anyone, even to the fucking smartest on this planet – like him and you.

“Wasn’t really my decision,” you replied, somewhat bitter. He sat up straighter at that and found your eyes. “My parents signed up for that Vought program.”

“What Vought program?”

The sting in his chest grew more intense. Like someone punched a fist between his ribs and squeezed.

“Vought ran these programs – recruited parents,” you explained slowly like you didn’t really want to talk about it. “Mostly from low-income families. They told them if they had kids, they could get them into Compound V trials. Have their kid become a hero, make money off of them… Well, you know the story.”

He did.

“They made parents sign NDAs too,” you continued. “Tell kids their abilities were a ‘natural gift.’ Truth didn’t come out till a couple years ago. Mostly because of Butcher, so he’s at least got that going for him, I guess.”

Ben was quiet for a moment, took a long drag from his weird-ass doobie. Tried not to make the fucking clicking thing go off again.

He’d heard it all before – in whispers in the hallways, in secret notes passed in meetings. Words like “special” and “God’s chosen” getting tossed around like warm bread.

Hell, they did it to him. He just didn’t give a fuck. Because he’d always known Santa Claus wasn’t fucking real. He knew where the fucking presents came from, and it wasn’t elves.

But what did he care if Vought shoved another fucking marketing lie down the public’s throat? Coca-Cola did it – “sugar is good for you.” Doctors recommended fucking Camels back then. News flash, ladies – diamonds weren’t fucking forever.

Hadn’t been his fucking problem…

“You believed that?” he asked after a pause.

You gave a small shrug of your shoulders. “Not really. For a while, yeah,” you replied at first, then bit your lip. “But when I was seven or eight, my powers really manifested, and I guess I was too curious not to peek. I had these weird dreams about it.”

“Nightmares?” he asked, and maybe he shot a little too quick at that one, but you didn’t seem to notice. Why would you?

“Kinda. I guess labs are scary for some people,” you mused. Ben frowned. “But they were actually just visions. So, you know, kinda ruined the magic.”

“So you were never actually human?”

His own question made him halt. You had no clue what it felt like?

There were days when he still missed it – not waking up with the screaming in his veins. Maybe that was the real reason why most supes were such fuckups. They didn’t know any better. Didn’t know what it was like to be free of burning poison.

You didn’t know.

“Guess not.” You shrugged simply like the thought had never even occurred to you at all.

“Your parents seriously signed you up for that shit?”

Another shrug. “Yeah, I mean, they were addicts, you know? They just thought in terms of their next fix. Heroin, meth, opioids… Saw my dad once drink antifreeze. Almost died. Did it again the next day. I mean, the only reason why they had me was to sell me. They didn’t want a kid beyond that. I used to sleep outside on an old cou–”

Click, click, click, CLIIIIIICK!

Your eyes flicked from the blinking counter to him.

“Are you okay?” you asked so innocently.

“‘M fine.”

He fucking wasn’t. This should’ve never fucking happened. You didn’t–… You hadn’t–…

He should’ve said something. Done something. Instead he just smiled for fucking cameras and let it fucking happen. He let you down. He just never thought you’d be around again to care. He never thought it would affect you.

But that didn’t really justify it, right? ‘Cause you’d argue that he was supposed to care anyway. He’d had that conversation before with you – just not the real you.

It was all his fucking fault, wasn’t it?

CLIIIIIIIICK!

“Jesus fuck! Can you shut it off?!”

“Are you nuts? It went off like five times in the last ten minutes. This is the worst time to shut it off,” you argued fiercely. Annoyed. “Just-… calm the fuck down for maybe three hours, and I’ll think about it.”

How was he supposed to fucking think clearly like this? A man needed fucking peace and quiet.

“Would you–” Your mouth opened. Closed. You groaned and lifted your eyes to the ceiling for a second. “Just take another hit, alright? Why are you so tense, anyway? I mean, you’re free now. Just relax for a minute instead of going straight on–, I don’t know, a killing spree.”

Ben snorted a laugh and took a long drag from his joint, chuckled till tears stung his eyes. Was he fucking losing his mind? That had to be it, right?

Free. Yeah, he felt so fucking free right now.

Felt more like some cosmic fucking prison. Like the universe had finally granted him his biggest wish and plopped you down right in front of him – all perfect and warm and fucking soft. And then it fucking told him not to touch.

Look but don’t taste.

Biggest fucking torture on the planet. Enough to break a man.

Who was fucking laughing at him now? God?

Click, click, click, click…

Ben groaned, let his head fall into his hands, you jumped up from your seat, and then were suddenly right in front of him. Kneeling.

What were you–

It was like you wanted this whole goddamn motel to go up in flames.

You put the little paper plane back into his mouth like he was a fucking toddler, lit it, and told him to breathe deep.

Thank fucking God you hadn’t told him to “open up” as he breathed into his fucking blue balls.

“Why did you get so upset when I told you that story?”

You didn’t move back to your old spot. You lingered. Sat down on the floor cross-legged in front of him, wide-eyed and curious.

Distraction.

“You know–” he started and smacked his lips, cleared his throat subtly like that one acting class Vought made him attend had taught him to. “Just upsetting. Fuckin’ Vought…” He gave a shake of his head. “Outrageous, really. You should be more angry about this…”

Your lips pursed, so he knew he was on the right track.

“You know, I didn’t know about it,” he added and licked his lips. Swallowed the guilt. And maybe he should’ve stopped right there. “If I had, I would’ve–…. You know, I-… I would’ve killed these bastards. This shit wouldn’t have happened on my watch, alright?”

“Yeah, okay,” you said quietly, almost like you didn’t believe him. Then you were silent for a moment. “Wasn’t really your fault. But it’s the thought that counts, right?”

He gave you a small nod and forced a smile, swallowing. “Yeah.”

The thought counted for fuckin’ nothin’.

“‘Sides, not sure there’s anything you could’ve done,” you added, voice soft and gentle like you were trying to make him feel better. He didn’t fucking deserve it. “Unless your plan would’ve been to burn down a whole lab with a bunch of perverted scientist in it.”

He should’ve done that! Why hadn’t he fucking thought of that? Why hadn’t he done exactly that?

This was why he needed you. You’d always been fucking smarter than him. You always had the best ideas.

God, fuckin’ shit.

He couldn’t figure this out on his own. You were the one who understood all that science and time crap. You were the one with the chalkboard. You could tell him what to fucking do here.

He should just fucking tell you the truth about everything. You’d know what to do. You’d understand all this shit, right? You could fix it. You wouldn’t think he was fucking crazy.

Right?

Yeah, he was just gonna tell you and ask for help. Tell you to make it right. Ask you to go back to ‘42 and fall in love with him.

Ah, fuck. That did sound fucking crazy. You’d probably run. Never speak to him again. Vanish.

Why couldn’t you fucking remember him? How could he explain that he’d already been in love with the girl sitting right next to him over eight decades ago?

You don’t, his brain chimed in. You sit there and fucking take it like a man.

And you just sat there too and stared at him like he was a fucking stranger – all perfect and close and out of reach. You were here but also weren’t. Like a fucking paradox.

Paradox…

You’d once said something about that. About cause and effect. Or was it fucking Schrödinger again? No…

No, Ben remembered the two of you were in the shed and you talked about it. Something about how actions have consequences. Said something about impossible situations. Called it a brain glitch.

Well, that didn’t sound fucking good, right?

Goddammit! Why couldn’t he remember the full fucking conversation? Why did that little shit back then have to stare at your ass so goddamn much?

If he could change time, he’d go back and tell that idiot to fucking listen for once.

Click, click, click, click…

“Jesus! What now?” You frowned and threw your arms up in frustration.

Ben shook his head, tried to clear his mind again. “Nothin’.” He then took another long drag of his joint.

He just had to stay fucking calm and figure this out on his own. Slowly. Not make any rash decisions like trying to fuck you into the floor. Not say something crazy like being in love with you for over eighty years.

“Maybe you should lay off the weed now,” you said, brow scrunched. “You’re getting kind of… sad… and… weird.”

Sad and weird. Fuckin’ great. Add lethal to that. Exactly what he’d been going for when it came to first impressions.

“You grew up on the streets, right? Did your parents sell you out, too? Is that why you’re so upset?”

Ben snapped out of his trance then and looked at you. He scratched his jaw, hesitating. You really didn’t know shit.

“Uh, no… to both,” he replied, clearing his throat, palms rubbing together like he could still fucking sweat. “Volunteered when I was twenty-five. Grew up rich, actually. Mansion.”

“Oh.”

Nope, didn’t seem to ring any bells for you. No mansion. No recognition. No memories. Even worse, Ben could feel your disappointment – as if the only thing you’d liked about him so far was a piece of Vought propaganda.

Yeah, he was tapping out for the night. Maybe forever. He couldn’t solve this shit. Couldn’t do fucking anything.

With a deep sigh that sounded more like a groan and defeat, he rose from the bed and paced the room, green eyes looking anywhere but you because if he did, he didn’t know how much longer he could control himself.

He just wanted to be with you. Just wanted to drag you out of this dump and live the fucking life he was supposed to have. Why couldn’t it be that fucking easy?

His eyes then landed on the little laminated pay-per-view program. A smile rose. “Well, look at that. They have some of my movies. Still bringing in the views.”

“In sleazy motels across America, maybe,” you muttered under your breath.

Ben ignored you and glanced over his shoulder, switching on the TV. “You ever seen one of mine?”

“Uh, not entirely, no,” you said, curling your lips. “Caught glimpses of some in those classics specials.”

“Well, you’re in for a treat, sweetheart.” He smirked broadly. “Wanna watch?”

You took a deep breath, exhaled a sigh, then gave him a fake fucking smile. “Sure. Whatever you want. I’m just here to babysit you, remember?”

Like he could fucking forget. You said it like it was a goddamn chore. Like you were getting paid to sit here and keep him calm – which to be fair, you sort of were.

Containment with a side of pity. That’s what he fucking got. Not admiration. Not love. Not you.

Something to manage, not something to miss.

But Ben didn’t let your mood deter him from his plan. He picked out a movie while you dragged yourself back to your old spot on the bed, settled in with another sigh – like you were humoring a petulant child.

Still, he plopped down next to you with a satisfied grin. You gave him a disapproving sideways glance and groaned slightly, but he didn’t care. He was gonna sit right next to you and enjoy this. Your look might’ve said “fuck off”, but your mouth didn’t, so he was gonna stay.

Maybe it wasn’t about the past at all. Maybe it was about the here and now. Maybe the universe was rewarding him.

He just needed to accept it and grab it. Make you fucking his again. Maybe that’s all there was to it. He’d just been fucking overthinking.

After everything he’d been through, after everything he’d fucking done for this country, he deserved to have nice things.

As the movie started with some obnoxious synth music, you still sat next to him, stiff and guarded. You kept just enough space for your thigh not to touch his – but still enough to drive him fucking insane.

Your shoulder brushed his arm slightly. Then you kicked off your shoes, stretched out those bare legs. His gaze followed naked skin from your ankle all the way up to where the hem of your jean shorts hugged your thigh. He almost goddamn came in his pants.

Yeah, maybe this had been a fucking bad idea after all.

“Is that Phoebe Cates?” Your head tilted at the screen and ripped him from his stupor.

“Huh?” His eyes squinted at the television where Phoebe’s character cooed and giggled and clung to his bicep. “Oh, yeah. She played my love interest.”

Your brows scrunched again. He used to kiss that spot above your nose where they met.

“She looks twelve.”

Ben frowned. Sighed internally this time. “She was twenty-one,” he huffed. Little too upset, maybe. “This was after she’d done Fast Times. Not so innocent. Trust me.”

“Still young,” you mumbled. Shrugged. “How old were you in this?”

“Vought billed me at thirty,” Ben said and stared stubbornly at the screen till the picture blurred, clearing his throat.

Slowly, your legs slid up to your chest as you rose to a sitting position, leaning forward. Raised your brows. Gave him a look.

Very judging.

“And in reality…? C’mon, I wanna know how many felonies I’m watching.”

Ben bit the insides of his cheeks. Hard. Might’ve tasted blood, then sniffed like it wasn’t a big fucking deal. “Born in 1919.”

“Fuck. Really?” A laugh spluttered out of you. Almost crippled you in half and threw you off the bed. “I mean, I knew you were in World War II, right? So–… Wait, that means you’re a… hundred-and–”

“Don’t do the fucking math.”

“–three! Holy shit!”

Ben groaned. Didn’t even hide it. He could still remember all of it. Same fire. Same mouth. Same razor-sharp wit that used to make him flinch and ache in equal measure. Never held back. Never tried to impress him. That was probably why he’d fallen so damn hard.

Fucking smart, too. He used to get off on it – literally. There were nights where you’d calculate the square root of something with his cock in your mouth just to screw with him.

The memory of your skin touching his burned through every inch of him. He could still feel you under him – warm and reckless and so fucking soft. The sounds you used to make. The way you used to bite your lip when you were trying not to laugh, how you’d curl your fingers into his shirt when he kissed you too hard, how you clung to him when he–

Click, click, click…

Of fucking course! Would only take a few seconds till you ask–

“You good?” Your eyes studied him.

Ben hummed and hoped you wouldn’t notice the damn ache in his sweats. “Yeah. Just excited to relive the glory days.”

“Sure.” You frowned, unconvinced.

You leaned back against the headboard and shifted, keeping a few strategic inches between you and him like it was habit. Like you’d done this kind of thing before with dangerous men who didn’t know where the line was.

“So…” He cleared his throat once more, gave you a smile that said he was probably trying a little too hard. “When’s your birthday?”

“I already told you,” you said, eyes not lifting from the glow of the TV.

“You told me your age,” he pointed out with as much patience as he could. “Didn’t tell me your birthday. When is it?”

“Why d’you wanna know?” Still didn’t look at him. Just dismissed him in hopes he’d go away.

Hadn’t worked for you the first time, though, had it?

“Humor me. Movie date etiquette,” he replied dryly, sent you a deadpan look that made you groan and roll your eyes. “March? December? January?”

“June.”

Huh. Well, fuck him. He hadn’t seen that one coming.

June. 1993. Twenty-nine. The world tilted on its axis. The moon dropped from the sky. The sun came with it. Nothing made fucking sense anymore.

Was this even the real you? Maybe it was a fucking clone. Or something else. Maybe he was dead and this was some weird fucking afterlife vision, his corpse still fueled by blue poison.

How was this possible? Unless–

Unless you fucking lied.

Ben jerked his head, narrowed his eyes, and watched you closely now. You’d always had an edge to you. You weren’t a full-blooded good girl. You’d always been that sweet spot in between.

So, okay... If he assumed you lied, he had to find out why, right?

The age thing – women lied about it all the time. Wasn’t a big deal. Over the years, he’d even begun to automatically add three to five years to whatever age they’d given him. He figured you’d lied, too.

But the birthday thing? That was fucking weird. Why would you do that? To blur your traces? To hide who you were? What you were?

Ben tried to remember the exact conversation. It was in his room–… No, the study. First night. You’d worn one of his shirts. You were still fucking closed off and guarded and didn’t like or trust him a whole lot – kinda like now. But he’d asked you to tell him at least one true thing about you, and you’d told him that today, January 24, was your birthday.

You hadn’t lied about it then. He could tell.

But you hadn’t actually said the date, had you? You’d just said today. Which might’ve been true – for you.

A half-truth.

Ben grinned smugly. He’d figured something out – without your help. You hadn’t been of any fucking help at all, actually.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” you asked and furrowed your brow at him.

Oh shit. He’d still been staring.

“Would you ever, you know, lie about your age?”

The question threw you, but not as much anymore. Like you’d gotten used to the weirdness.

“Well, if you’re asking for yourself, I’d definitely lie next time you go on a date,” you replied wryly.

Good enough.

The two of you then went back to watching TV. He didn’t ask more weird questions and left you in peace. You looked tired. He was, too.

He tried not to get worked up whenever you accidentally touched him or he’d catch a whiff of your scent when the AC would graciously carry it to his nose. He didn’t know the shampoo or the perfume but recognized what was underneath it.

He wanted to touch you. Wanted to close the space, let his hand rest on your thigh, let his thumb brush over your skin, see if you’d still arch into him the way you used to when you were tangled up in his sheets.

Touch me, Ben thought, almost hoping his thoughts were loud enough for you to hear. Just once like you used to. Just look at me like I’m still that guy.

But you didn’t. You kept watching the screen. He followed your eyes and looked at Phoebe moaning his name under a fake rain machine – barely resisted the urge to shut it off.

You were younger than Phoebe. Smarter than all of them. You were the first woman who’d ever rolled her eyes at him – shocking, yes. The first one to tell him he was full of shit and then kiss him like she meant it. And when you’d kissed him, it hadn’t been about movies or hero worship or fear.

You’d kissed him because you wanted to.

Because even when he was just a rich asshole with nothing but a fast car and a faster mouth, you saw through all of it.

Now you didn’t see him at all.

And he was scared shitless that maybe you never would again.

If you didn’t remember him, it meant this you next to him hadn’t gone back and met the past version of him yet. But it’d also meant you must’ve known him then because you knew him now.

God, his head was startin’ to hurt again.

You hadn’t told him anything. Pretended you didn’t know him already – like he was doing now.

Ben figured you had your reasons, probably smart ones, so maybe he was actually onto something here, too. Maybe he had to just keep playing the game – like you had.

But for how fucking long?

You’d stayed in 1942 for five months? Six? It was fucking July now. Your next birthday was in eleven months – and that was best case fucking scenario. Could be five more years, could be fucking ten… And you’d told him your abilities didn’t even work in that way anymore. That was another fucking problem.

Shit.

“Hey, so, that time jumping thing, how does it–” But Ben stopped mid-question when he glanced down and noticed you’d dozed off.

You were out cold, curled up on your side, head tipped slightly toward him like it had just happened mid-eye roll. You’d made it a point to keep space between you the entire night, but now your head was resting against his arm.

Funny how that worked.

Ben didn’t dare move for a long moment. Just watched you while the credits rolled to that awfully cheesy ‘80s synth again. Watched your chest fall and rise, watched your eyelashes rest against your cheek.

He hadn’t seen you sleep in eighty years. Took everything in him not to reach out and pull you into his side.

“Missed you, sweetheart.”

He sighed softly under his breath, tipped his head back, eased into the mattress, and shut his eyes. And for the first time since 1942, he let himself fall asleep beside you again.

▶️ Chapter 14: I'm Going to Have a Lot of Drinks

Poor guy, will he ever figure it out? The answer is yes – in the next part 😉 (aka the part where Ben realizes he needs to switch tactics and becomes a complete asshole). We'll see how it goes. It won't be a battle won by math skills for sure 😆

Coming Up:

Rough fuckin’ morning… And it had only been the first goddamn day of many.

At least, he had some Bennies to get over the pain above (and the ache below) – well… until you fucking ruined that, too.

Because you watched him. Sitting on the bed, cross-legged, sipping coffee and still working that damn straw. Eyes on him.

His back was half-turned, but he still caught it in his periphery as he was halfway through crushing pills to dust with his knife.

Judging.

“Problem, sweetheart?” His voice was a little too gruff, a little too deep, a little too defensive. Too confrontational.

“No,” you replied, bored. Almost deadpan. Then you casually opened the folder in your lap, directed your gaze there, took a slurp of coffee through the straw, and added: “My parents always snorted their breakfast, too.”

Then, you gave a shrug of your shoulders and started reading – innocent. Like you hadn’t just launched him into complete chaos.

You liked teaching people lessons, alright. You also liked fucking with them. On purpose.

This was the goddamn problem with smart women – especially if they fucking knew it, too. They knew exactly where to hit and make it stick.

But Ben couldn’t help the little smirk twitching on his lips – almost proud.

Back then, your brilliance and genius was cute – not threatening. Now, though? With all you could do? All that power wrapped inside one tiny girl? A little scary.

Dangerous.

And well, he was a little dangerous, too. You and him had always made a good team in the past. Now, the two of you could be unstoppable.

🚀 Read up to 4 chapters ahead on Patreon now

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Fuck.

Your gaze lifted to the tall, shadowy figure by the mouth of the alley, already recognizing the unmistakeable deep timbres of Soldier Boy before he stepped into the light.

“I believe I told you to leave me alone,” you muttered, annoyed.

An idiot like Soldier Boy would not be history’s downfall. You had to ensure the timeline stayed intact. The less interaction you had with him, the better.

“I know. I’m-… I’m sorry, miss,” he apologized once more to you.

If you hadn’t heard it with your own ears, you wouldn’t have thought apologies were even part of his vocabulary, hearing him say the word twice was almost mind-boggling. Then your eyes fixed on the little black box tightly clasped in his left hand and widened in horror – your phone.

Losing futuristic devices like this was a big time-traveling no-no.

Luckily, Soldier Boy was probably too much of a moron to puzzle it altogether. That might just be history’s saving grace.

“You-, uh, you lost this. Just wanted to return it,” he said and tentatively held the phone out to you.

With an exhaustive sigh, you jumped to your feet and ripped the device out of his hand. “Give that to me!”

You huffed a ‘thank you’ and stomped down the alley, back towards the busy street. All you needed was a quiet and warm place to figure this out and return to your own time. But Soldier Boy was still hot on your tail, following you with a swift pace.

“Miss, wait! Wait a second! Hey!”

With a few long strides of his bow legs, he had flagged you down before you’d even reached the main street. But that didn’t halt your feet completely, although he’d slowed you down significantly.

“What? I told you to stay away. Stop following me,” you snapped.

“I’m just trying to ensure you’re alright,” he insisted, attempting to appear as harmless as possible.

At this point, you thought you were beginning to hallucinate because your mind tried to convince you there was actual, legitimate worry gleaming in his forest green eyes. In reality, he was probably just acting to save the damsel in distress, so he could warm her up at his penthouse and slip something into her drink.

Not fucking happening. 

“I’m fine.” You gritted a smile and opted to ignore him as you scurried past the first crowd of people on the sidewalk.

“No offense, miss, but you don’t seem fine,” he insisted and ran in front of you, blocking your way. With a frustrated groan, you finally stopped and sent him a glare, but he only met you with a sincere look. “Let me help you, alright? I promise I mean no harm or ill-intention if that is what you’re worried about.”

Ha! 

Internally, you snorted. But he raised his open palms again as if to prove his words, his eyes boring intensely into yours. He might as well have been fucking Mindstorm.

“Listen, you look like someone who’s used to getting what he wants all the time, but no means no. Stop following me, okay?”

You hoped you had finally drilled the message into his thick skull and he’d leave you alone after this, but alas he wouldn’t be Soldier Boy if he listened to you. One step past him, and a hand grabbed your arm.

Ready to fend him off, you were surprised to find his grip wasn’t strong by any means. It was barely a brush before he dropped his hand again and looked at you remorsefully.

“I’m sorry! I just-… Please let me help you,” he reiterated with imploring green eyes. “Look, you clearly seem lost. Just tell me where you live, and I can get you home safely, okay? C’mon, you can’t do this to me.” He tried to loosen you up with a charming smile and a puppy dog look. “If you leave like this, I’m going to be up all night, worrying you’ve died of hypothermia out here.”

And my God, he seemed sincere! No wonder he had gotten attention from women like a goddamn bunny in a petting zoo.

Musingly, you then chewed on your lower lip and assessed the man in front of you. The people who strolled by you threw you the occasional weird looks – you’d chosen a bad day to wear a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and ripped jeans.

Admittedly, you could use a little help here. Maybe if you were being careful with the timeline – and him – you could risk it.

You exhaled a hesitant breath, but your head nodded slightly. “Just-, uh, just get me to Fifth Avenue. I can find my way from there, alright?”

It was a simple request, but his brows drew together as if you’d just asked him something insane.

“Fifth Avenue as in New York City?” he questioned.

Oh no, you didn’t like where this was going.

“Yes?”

He clicked his tongue, scratching the nape of his neck where the collar of his coat ended. “Well, uh, I guess I could take you there tomorrow. It’s about a four hour car ride in this weather. I mean, if we took the train, we’d be a little faster.”

Four hours?! 

“Where-, uh… What, uh, what city am-, am I?”

He clicked his tongue again. This time, a little smirk twitched on his lips too, but he tried his best to hide his amusement. “Uh, Philadelphia. You know, Pennsylvania?”

“Yeah, no, I know geography, thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

Curling your lips, you tilted your head at him, your cheeks catching heat, even though you were practically freezing. Oh, he was trying to be clever now, wasn’t he?

Sheepishly, he met your eyes and smiled innocently.

But when that little fascinating moment had passed, you realized you were still stuck here, and the panic set back in. Your gaze flickered around – there was nowhere you could go. However, you then noticed something else – no one was staring at Soldier Boy, even though he was supposed to be America’s greatest hero. Was he in a disguise? Was that what he did back then?

“So, uhm… is this the 40s?”

There was beat of silence as he licked his lips. “Yeah, uh, this is the 40s, sweetheart.” He laughed heartily, throwing his head back. “You know, I’ve had some bad hangovers and woke up someplace, not knowing where I was, but I’ve never forgotten the year before.”

No surprise, you thought wryly and then swallowed, glancing back up at him.

“So, uhm, what year is this?”

“It’s January 24, 1942,” he replied patiently, his eyes watching you closely.

And then, it began to dawn on you.

“And what d’you do? Are you, uhm–“ Soldier Boy? “–a soldier?”

He laughed again, his cheeks slightly blushing in the cold. He adjusted the flat cap on his head. “Uh, no. Well, not yet anyways. I actually just came from the office downtown and enlisted when I ran into you.”

Holy fucking shit.

The man before you wasn’t a supe yet. He wasn’t Soldier Boy yet. He was just a normal human, and you felt like you were staring through the looking-glass and seeing Wonderland.

And if your math was correct, it also meant the guy in front of you was no more than 23 years old.

Holy fucking shit.

“But, uh, I also work at my father’s office,” he added after you hadn’t said anything. “Why are-, why are you looking at me like that?” he then asked with a flustered chuckle, and you realized you were still staring at him.

“Oh, uhm, I’m sorry,” you apologized quickly and forced a smile. “You just looked like a soldier, I guess.”

His cheeks reddened even more as he bashfully averted his eyes to the snowy pavement and scratched the back of his neck. “Well, uh, thank you.”

He clearly took it as a compliment that he already looked the part of a hero. Nice save, you praised yourself.

“Why-, uh, why don’t we get you warmed up a little, huh?” he suggested kindly and finally dared to step closer. Swiftly, he took off his coat and draped it over your shoulders and bare arms. “Here, take my coat. You poor thing must be freezing. Look at you, you’re shaking.”

His smile was friendly and reassuring as he adjusted the collar around your neck. Uncomfortably, you rolled your shoulders, though, and backed away from his touch.

“Alright, uhm, just please don’t touch me,” you said, your voice meek and barely audible. You knew technically it wasn’t the same guy who had abused, tortured, harassed, and bullied you for months on end, but you still didn’t want his hands anywhere near you.

“Okay, yeah, sure,” he resigned and raised his palms again before gesturing down the street, trying his hardest not to lay a hand on the small of your back and lead you there himself. “There’s a diner a few blocks from here. Would that be okay?”

Reluctantly, you nodded, wrapping the thick coat, which smelled like his cologne and cigars, tighter around you as you followed him.

Fortunately, the diner was quaint and dimly lit. The bell above the door jingled as you entered with your unwanted sidekick. He made sure to always stay one step behind you, and you didn’t know if it was because it was polite to let the lady go first, or if he just wanted to keep a watchful eye on you in case you’d make a run for it again.

You passed a row of customers sitting hunched over at the counter before Soldier Boy – or not Soldier Boy yet – then picked a table in a quiet corner, away from everyone else as if he knew you’d appreciate the privacy. The less people saw and noticed you, the better. You knew you had to get home fast before messing up the intricate fabric of time too much.

“So, uh, what’s your name?” he asked as the waitress placed down his simple black coffee and your Earl Grey, your cold hands quickly grasping onto the hot mug and warming against the ceramic.

“Uh… Cindy,” you replied quickly, not wanting to give him your real name and share too much. It was smarter to be careful.

“Cindy, huh?” The name rolled off his tongue with a subtle smirk as if he liked the sound of it. “Does that come with a last name?”

“Uh, yes… Lauper,” you replied and bit your lip hard. “I’m, uh, from the Lauper’s of Upstate New York, you know? From a small town called, uh… Flatiron.”

“Huh. Interesting…” he mused, pursing his lips. “Never heard of it.”

“Yeah, well, like I said, it’s a small town…” you deflected and sipped on your drink.

“Well, uhm, I’m Benjamin Brooks,” he introduced himself with a suave smile. “But, uh, most people just call me Ben.”

When you only gave him a disinterested nod, he licked his lips, his fingers tapping against the coffee mug in his hold before he looked at you again and cleared his throat.

“You’ve, uh, probably heard of the name. My father owns half the steel mills in the state,” he said with a bragging grin, which lost its energy when you still didn’t give him the time of day.

“Uh-huh…”

“Brooks Steel Company? You’ve never heard of it?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.” Somewhat defeated, he pursed his lips, his fingers tapping on the table this time. Then, a soft smile formed as he leaned back in his seat. “So, uh, what about you? What brings you here to Philadelphia?”

“Uhm… business,” you said as if you were answering a customs question at the airport.

“Really? What kind of business?”

“You ask a lot of questions…”

He chuckled slightly, his cheeks blushing. “Well, uh, excuse my curiosity, please. It’s just-… well, the clothes you’re wearing and the, uh, weird black box you’re carrying… What is it, anyway?”

Shit. 

“Uh, it’s a… flashlight,” you replied, thinking of the most basic function of your phone.

“Flashlight?”

“Yes, it’s a… prototype. Uses lithium-ion batteries instead of the carbon-zinc ones you find in flashlights at this… current time… right now,” you explained in a careful stammer and only realized you might have said too much when his brow raised.

“Huh.” He stumped for a beat. “You know a lot of technical things for a woman.”

Internally, you wanted to groan at the sexist remark, but considering it was 1942, you had to admit he was probably right. Even in the 21st century, it was still a rarity to find a woman in a STEM field.

“Yes, uh, well, my father taught me some stuff,” you lied. As a matter of fact, your father was a drunk loser, who couldn’t change a single lightbulb even if you turned it into a joke. “You know, just small… simple things. God knows I could barely understand what he was saying half the time.”

Your silly giggle at the end was the cherry on top of your sales pitch.

“Ah, that makes sense,” Ben bought it, chuckling.

Jesus fuck, shoot me…

“Where did you get it?”

“Huh?”

“The flashlight.”

“Oh…” Think fast. “I-, uh, I built it, yeah… To sell, you know? It’s an experiment, but it failed, so you can forget about it, okay?”

That was believable, right? Wozniak got nothing on you. And technically, you had already swapped out the broken screen glass of your vPhone multiple times – by yourself. It wasn’t so far-fetched if you really thought about it…

“Alright.” Ben nodded, a smile playing on his lips as he took a sip of coffee. “And, uh, is that why you’re wearing those clothes? Are you a mad scientist or farmhand or–“

Your eyebrows drew together. “A farmhand?”

He laughed lightly, shaking his head. “I promise I don’t mean any offense, sweetheart. It’s just women… people usually don’t really run around wearing… well, that,” he explained and gestured a hand up and down your frame.

Uncomfortably, you wrapped his wool coat tighter around you, the small, pleased twitch of his lips at your action sending a shiver down your spine. As you let your glance wander through the small establishment, you noted the tight dresses and skirts with tailored waists all women were wearing. You definitely looked odd and out of place compared to all the Mrs. Maisels around you.

Most of them were even wearing hats, too. Hats. Wide-brimmed ones and pillboxes and snoods and berets. Fucking berets.

And here you sat – with a messy bun that you hadn’t even bothered to brush once after rolling out of bed this morning.

“No, I-, uh, I just grabbed what I found,” you answered him quickly then but could see his lips parting with another question. Luckily, you were interrupted this time.

“Benjamin Brooks! You rat bastard!”

Ben’s green eyes widened almost comically as he shared a brief look with you before turning his head to the young, furious woman who stormed into the diner, heels clicking on the floor.

Ah yes, finally a more familiar side of the man you recognized from the future.

“Grace, darling!” Flustered, he rose from his seat with an awkward laugh, and you could tell he was trying to keep the drama on the down-low for your benefit.

The harsh slap across his cheek he instantly received, however, echoed loudly through the quiet diner. A few heads turned as cutlery clinked against tableware, but no one dared to say anything. You buried your face in your tea and tried to stifle your laugh.

Man, you would love to slap the human version of him, too.

“Don’t darling me, Benjamin, after you’ve been two-timing me with that tramp Betty Vanderbilt!” the girl yelled loud enough for the whole diner to hear.

Sheepishly and with a bit of charm, Ben scratched the back of his neck. “Well, to be fair, I thought you knew about Betty. We weren’t exactly exclus–“

He barely got the word out before another slap rang through the diner as her hand came down hard on his cheek once more. It was turning crimson red rather quickly and was a sight to behold. You had to admit you liked that girl.

“Not exclusive?! We’re engaged, you dog!”

Holy shit! Soldier Boy used to have a fiancée? Well, you’re not surprised that didn’t work out…

“I already forgave you once for sleeping with Sheila! I can’t believe you did this to me again!”

As much as you enjoyed the show, you appreciated the distraction and saw it as a perfect opportunity to sneak away and finally get rid of him. Stealthily, you rose from your chair and crept by the arguing couple to the exit.

You were warmed up enough to find shelter on your own and hoped the timeline wasn’t too cracked when you’d return. Mostly, though, you hoped Soldier Boy was too self-centered to remember someone like you.

You had made it all the way to the sidewalk again before his voice reached your ears. You sighed your frustration but kept on walking, ignoring his calls.

“Cindy! Hey, uh, wait!”

Shit.

Why was he so fucking fast? He wasn’t even a supe yet.

Once more, he came to a stop in front of you and blocked your way. “Why-, uh, why did you leave? I mean, I know this looked really bad, but–“

“Look, uh, thank you for everything,” you interrupted his beginning of an excuse with as much patience as you could find within yourself. “I know you’re trying to be nice and all, and you’ve been super kind… But I’ve got it from here, alright? Just forget you ever met me, okay?”

Amused, he snorted. “Well, kinda hard to forget someone like you, sweetheart.”

Fucking fuck.

“What d’you mean? I’m completely normal.” You tried to shrug it off, but you’d never been the best actress – another thing the two of you had in common.

“No, you’re not.” A smirk rose on his lips that he tried to bite back. “I mean, sure, you’re exceptionally beautiful, but you’re also kind of… mysterious. Guess that’s what intrigues me.”

Fuck. In all your effort to get rid of him and save the timeline, you had actually attracted his attention more. It seemed like your dismissiveness and aggression had only piqued his interest instead of deterring it. Your fallacy was thinking he’d back off from a strong, rude, and unruly woman like you.

You probably should’ve acted more like Grace, Betty, and Sheila – be forgettable.

“Alright, out of curiosity, does this little routine usually work for you?” you challenged, arching a brow. A smile played across your lips as you watched his reaction.

“What routine?”

“Oh, you know… Turning up the charming smile and being nice, while also dropping your rich daddy’s name and how much money you’ve got,” you retorted. “I mean, I guess it must work, right? Surely worked for Grace, Betty, and Sheila so far.”

Bobbing his head, he pursed his lips for a moment while you enjoyed your win. But with a smack of his lips, he found your eyes, the little smirk on his lips not fully vanished yet.

“Alright, I know how this looks, okay? But it’s not what you think,” he started.

“Oh, so you didn’t sleep with all of these women?”

“Well, uhm…”

Complacently, you threw him a smile. “Goodbye, Benjamin.”

“No, wait! Why don’t you come back inside with me where it’s warm and let me explain everything?” he proposed and then sent you that charmingly cute smile again. “I’m kinda starting to freeze here, you know? You’re still wearing my coat, sweetheart.”

“Oh, uh… Sorry.” Your brow knitted as you stared down at the warm, long clothing item around you. Flustered, your cheeks blushed, but as you began to take it off with the intent to hand it back to him, he stopped you.

“No, uh, please keep it. I can find another one,” he said, laughing softly. “Besides, it looks better on you.”

God, you wanted to slap him like Grace.

“Well, uhm, thank you, but I’m still not coming back in there with you again, alright?” you said firmly. “I have to get going now. Don’t follow me anymore.”

You tried to push past him, but of course, he still wasn’t listening to you.

“Wait! Just wait a second!”

And you knew if you didn’t stop, he would just keep following you till you both died of hypothermia. So, you spun to face him with a deeply impatient frown.

“Do you even know where you’re going? Do you have a place to stay?”

“Yes.”

“Where? In New York? You know, you’re not going to make it there on foot today. Especially during this weather,” he noted with a bit of playfulness in his voice. “Unless, you’re planing on stealing a car.” He chuckled but then lifted a brow at you. “You’re not, are you?”

“No, of course not!”

Well, not the worst idea…

“Alright, look, my parents are out of town for a month. Got the the whole mansion to myself. Just stay at my place for the night, and we can figure out how to get you to New York in the morning, alright?”

“You do know what that sounds like, right? Are you even hearing yourself?” you questioned, causing him to laugh again. It was still weird to hear it without undertones of viciousness in it – like a temporal whiplash.

“The house is big enough, and I promise you’ll have your own bedroom. Not mine, alright?” he clarified but tried to hide a smile. “Unless–“

“Nope.”

“Alright, well, uh, the point is, it’s big enough, so you don’t even have to see me if you don’t want to,” he added with an innocently imploring look. “Just let me help you, please.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, your brow only creasing more. “Why do you wanna help me so badly, huh? I don’t understand. I mean, are you really doing this out of the sheer goodness of your heart of gold? What’s your angle here, soldier boy?”

He chuckled, his cheeks warming with a flush. “Gotta say, kind of like that nickname.”

“I bet you do,” you muttered wryly. “So, why? Why are you helping me?”

Ben scratched his jaw and took a step closer to you. The air shifted, a part of you wondering if he’d finally drop his mask. He kept his deep voice low as he spoke.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I know you’ve been serving me a lot of bullshit today.” Your heart stopped, but when you glanced at him, he wasn’t angry. He was… worried. “I don’t mind, okay? You just-… you look like someone who’s in a bit of trouble, and I guess I can relate, so let me help you, alright?”

“I-… I don’t know,” you replied honestly this time, both hesitation and caution shimmering in your eyes as your teeth clawed into your bottom lip. “What if I say no, you’re gonna hand me over to the cops? The asylum people?”

“Is that where you broke out from?”

A bit offended, you gasped. “The asylum?!”

Granted, you were acting a little crazy – for the time period. You were perfectly ordinary and sane in your own century.

Oh God, was that how Soldier Boy felt in your time? Always displaced and out-of-touch? What a horrible feeling…

“No, jail,” he said then, which caused your brow to raise in surprise.

“Oh.”

He cocked an eyebrow at you. “Wait, did you break out of jail?”

“No!”

“Alright, uhm…” Ben laughed and rubbed his palms together, probably to keep himself warm. His sandy-blond hair had collected quite a bit of snow. He must’ve forgotten his cap inside the diner. “Listen, I’m not going to call anyone. I promise you can trust me, okay?”

That seemed like a trap, right? A demon tricking you into making a deal for your soul.

“Are you, uhm, running from someone?” he asked, with not only concern but also determination to fight whoever was after you gleaming in his eyes.

Ironic, you thought since you were running from him.

“Uh, no, not really,” you replied hesitantly.

“Were you held somewhere?” he asked next, carefully licking his lips. “You know, against your will?”

Yes, by you, you wanted to scream.

“Kinda, yeah,” you admitted softly. And in a way, it felt weirdly therapeutic to confess that to the Dr. Jekyll version of your future Hyde.

“Okay, uhm…” He swallowed subtly, nodding. Then, his eyes bored so sincerely into yours you really thought you’d fallen down the rabbit hole. “Well, you don’t have to be scared. You’re safe with me, alright?”

Fuck. You were fucking screwed, weren’t you?

“So? You’re finally gonna let me help you?”

You exhaled a deep breath as you assessed the man in front you once more. You had no place to go, it was cold, and the sun was beginning to set. Your powers, on the other hand, still seemed to be dormant.

“Fine,” you caved at last. “One night. And you better not crawl into my bed, alright?”

Placatingly, he raised his hands again but there was a broad smile on his freckled face this time. “Understood, loud and clear. I heard you earlier – no means no.”

Wow. You began to wonder what really happened to the guy in the following 80 years to shape him into the toxic piece of shit you have to deal with on a daily basis.

“You sure your fiancée won’t mind if you take another woman home? I don’t wanna get burned at the stake again,” you quipped, but there was wariness behind it. Grace’s slaps looked pretty painful. You’d rather avoid it if you could.

“Again?”

“Long story,” you sighed. When you first had told Soldier Boy about your past, he’d been kind and understanding. He’d said it was a good thing that all those people who tried to burn you were dead now – which was about the nicest thing a guy like him could’ve said.

Then he turned around and made fun of you for months on end.

“Well, uhm, I can assure you she won’t kill you. It’s not like that, alright? She’s not my fiancée. Trust me,” Ben said, amused.

“That’s not what she said,” you pointed out. You were definitely believing that woman over him. He was a fucking dog – as Grace put it. You were sure that personality trait was the same at any point in time.

“Technicality.” He shrugged it off. You arched a brow. He smirked. “It’s a long story, too.”

You rolled your eyes, sighing. “Alright, fine.”

Ben’s smile twitched eagerly to rise higher by the heartbeat. “Okay, uhm, my car’s over there.”

He gestured down the street past the diner and let you pass, only walking closely next to you but careful not to touch as his arm only hovered protectively behind your back.

“Still no touching there, alright, Romeo?” you reminded him with a stern finger.

“I know,” he sang, chuckling. “Just trying to be proactive here. There’s a lotta ice, you know? Wouldn’t want you to slip in your basketball shoes.”

For reference, you were wearing a simple pair of black Chucks.

“Fine, I’ll allow it.”

“You allow it, huh?” he teased with a boyish grin.

“Yeah, I’ll allow you to protectively guard me from a distance,” you retorted. “You’re not supposed to enjoy it, though.”

“Oh, I don’t think that was the deal we made, sweetheart.” His grin grew even wider now.

“Don’t make me regret this already,” you sighed.

“Well, uh, too late. We’re already here,” he then said and stopped, motioning to a deep emerald green, elegant, sleek car with a beige convertible roof. “That’s it. It’s a Cadillac 75. What d’you think?”

“I don’t know enough about cars to be impressed,” you told him.

He laughed, rubbing his chin. “Well, worth a shot.”

Ben then opened the door for you and waited till you were safely seated inside (or trapped) before rounding the vehicle and sliding into the driver’s seat.

And as the two of you drove down the snowy streets of Philadelphia, you wondered if you had just gotten into a car with Clarence or with the fucking devil himself.

▶️ Chapter 3: I'm Going To Be a Lady If It Kills Me

Ah, yes... Wouldn't we all love to slap him like Grace in the future? 😂 What do you think of young Ben so far? While he seems nicer and kinder than his alter ego, there are surely some core personality traits present 😜

Coming Up:

Reluctantly, you stepped into the hallway, unsure of how to ask, but the need to find something – anything – took over. It wasn’t like you could just wander around in a towel, although you were sure your host would probably appreciate the sight.

“Uhm, Ben?” you called softly, your tone a little shakier than you'd intended.

A few moments passed before his voice answered from down the hall, a bit too loud, as though he’d been waiting for this. “Yeah?”

“I-, uh, I don’t have... anything to wear,” you said quietly and swallowed, your gaze drifting to your bare feet on the floorboards.

There was a long pause before he appeared in the doorway, his face flushed. “Right. Well, I-... I can get you something,” he said. His eyes flicked to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again, the awkwardness hanging between you like a palpable thing that you could reach out and touch with your fingers. “I–” His voice dropped lower as he turned away for a second, his hand on the doorframe. He then gave a brief chuckle, almost self-conscious. “I don’t usually keep spare clothes for, uh, guests. But I’m sure I can find something that fits you. One second.”

You felt tethered to the ground as he disappeared down the hall, unsure whether to laugh or fucking scream. He came back a few moments later with a shirt and pants, an outfit clearly meant for a man, and you were pretty sure they were his own. The fit would be loose, but better than nothing.

“Here,” he said, offering it to you. His gaze lingered on you a second longer than was probably polite before he turned away again, his cheeks tinged pink.

Yeah, you had to get rid of the towel. You didn’t want to give him any ideas – or more, for that matter. He’d already seen you naked various times in the future. You knew privacy was an alien concept to that man.

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“A ‘please’ wouldn’t hurt you every once in a while,” you muttered with a glare at the supe.

“Disagree,” he huffed.

When Butcher and his team tracked you down and recruited you almost a year ago, you surely hadn’t signed up to spend your days with a fossil from the past century. All they had wanted you to do was find the weapon that could destroy Homelander. That weapon turned out to be Soldier Boy.

And you had found him, freed the man from forty years of Russian torture without receiving so much as a ‘thank you,’ and helped the team take down Homelander, who was currently powerless and safely locked up in a CIA black site. Now, you were still here – as was Soldier Boy.

To your dismay, he wasn’t just the most powerful supe on the planet, especially after his own son’s steep fall from grace, but he was also the biggest motherfucking asshole that ever walked the earth.

Soldier Boy was obnoxious, loud, rude, sexist, racist, lazy, arrogant, selfish, cruel, deceitful, complacent, vindictive, inconsiderate, paranoid, ruthless and unsympathetic. Honestly, you’d need a whole dictionary just to get through every single character trait you hated about that man.

This morning he’d been particularly belligerent as soon as he had set foot inside the office and Hughie bumped into him, causing Soldier Boy to spill his iced latte. To be fair, the guy had just been standing in the doorway like a moron for a full three minutes – he’d stared at you the whole time, probably thinking of new ways to torture you.

Today marked your 30th birthday of all things, so it was only natural your over six-feet playground tormentor would be present for the occasion.

“Led Zeppelin, huh?” he noted with an arched brow, eyeing your choice of outfit. You mostly wore band shirts from tours you’d been to from your time traveling adventures.

“Yeah, I got it for my twenty-fifth birthday. I went to Zeppelin’s first tour in 1969. Only wear it on special occasions,” you told him with a smile.

In some rare moments, it was actually possible to have a normal fucking conversation with him. You hoped it was one of those. Aside from his grumpiness in the morning, maybe he’d decided to give you a break on your birthday.

“Oh, yeah, right…” He rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Happy fucking birthday, I guess.”

“That is so sweet of you, thank you,” you replied wryly.

He knew what you were doing. His smile rose – and then morphed into a provocative smirk. “So, thirty, huh? How’s that feminist bullshit working out for your biological clock, sweetheart?”

“Don’t kill him,” Annie reminded you of the office mantra with calm in her voice as she sat behind you at her desk, causing Soldier Boy to snort a laugh.

“Isn’t it time for your nap, gramps? You’re sundowning,” you retorted instead with a teasing smile.

You took his taunts lightheartedly. After all, you didn’t think you’d have to worry in that department – much like him. For some reason, you didn’t age… a lot. At least, it was slower than the average supe and human. You figured it might have to do with dropping in and out of wormholes. You had aged just fine as a kid but it progressively began to slow around your sixteenth birthday – the first time you’d traveled through time and jumped to Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged show in New York of December 1993.

You remembered your parents had been fighting behind the broken and yellowing partition slider of a trailer you had called your home. You’d lain on the pull-out bed with your headphones on and a Walkmen, trying to drown out their screaming. You listened to that record and wished you could be there – and then you were.

You’d found your ruby slippers.

To this day, you still got ID’ed at every bar, club, and liquor store alike. Soldier Boy had never been carded. He’d once claimed it was because he was famous, to which you’d almost spat out your drink and told him the wrinkles didn’t lie. Least to say, that little joke hadn’t flown well with the supe.

“You know, doll, if you ever need that tension to disappear from your shoulders, I’m right here.” Soldier Boy smirked cockily at you and spread his legs a little further apart. Not a day passed by when he didn’t hit on you either – or anything with tits, really. “Just say the word, and I fuck it right outta you. I do like ‘em older, you know, so I don’t give shit. But if you wanna get cracking on this baby thing, we better fuck on this couch right now.”

“Please don’t,” Hughie pleaded in a high-pitched sigh, glued in his spot next to Annie.

“No, thanks,” you scoffed and scrunched your nose in disgust. “You’re a fucking pig.”

“Hey, c’mon, I know you want to,” replied Soldier Boy without an ounce of self-reflection, his smirk only widening as his hand crawled up your thigh. “Bet you’ve been waiting for a big dick like mine, haven’t you?”

“Get your fucking hands off of me!” You slapped his fingers away, huffing in frustration.

Not even your kindergarten bully had been this fucking annoying – and that kid threw a dodge ball at your face and broke your nose.

Fortunately, while your own powers were on the fritz, you still had some superhuman strength. Sure, not as much as Soldier Boy, but if he shoved, you could at least push back enough for him to leave you alone.

For, like, five seconds.

Soldier Boy laughed loudly at your rejection. “I do like ‘em feisty,” he murmured with a sultry voice, invading your space even more as he shifted closer on the couch. Lion king on the prowl. “You know, you’d be less useless if you spread your legs every once in a while.”

Jumping up from your seat, you rounded the table to bring space between you and face him properly. It was always smarter when he was in your view at all times and you could watch his brazen hands with an eagle eye – the same hands that currently began to roll a blunt on the coffee table.

“Hey, if it weren’t for me, you’d still be frozen solid in a box in Russia,” you bit.

“Well, we’d like to think we would’ve found him eventually, love,” Butcher threw in from across the room, the sly grin on his face telling you he was enjoying the show.

“See?” Soldier Boy sneered complacently. “Fucking useless.”

“You’re fucking useless!” you yelled, anger surging through every inch of your body. “No one fucking likes you! You don’t have friends, you don’t have family, and everyone in this room fucking despises you – just like your old team!”

Slowly, he rose from his spot on the couch, nostrils flaring, his sheer height imposing as he towered over you like the Empire State. A part of you was glad there was still a piece of furniture between you – even though that wouldn’t stop him in the slightest.

“You take that fucking back,” he snarled, one hand balling into a fist by his side while the other pointed a warning finger at you.

However, you stood your ground, crossing your arms in front of your chest, a challenging look in your eyes but a subtle swallow in your throat. “No,” you said defiantly and bristled. “I’ll drop you into the fucking Jurassic era where you belong, fossil. Watch you become a T-Rex’s fucking chew toy.”

Soldier Boy’s grin boldly widened, green eyes shimmering daringly. “Do. It.”

“Oy, simmer down, kids,” Butcher assuaged but didn’t even bother to glance up from the newspaper in his hands. Instead, the Brit leaned back in his chair and threw his legs up on the desk, settling into a more comfortable position.

Soldier Boy threw him a dismissive look, annoyed at the interruption, before his attention turned back to you with a spiteful sneer. “You know, if I were you, I would’ve used those powers properly. I would’ve gone back and fucking killed baby Hitler or some shit.”

You scoffed a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, not surprising you would’ve killed a fucking baby,” you retorted dryly.

“See, this is why you’re a fucking failure,” he taunted and stepped closer, his face only inches away from yours now. You could feel his hot breath against your skin. “Those powers were clearly wasted on you, doll. Women are too fucking soft.”

You snorted, shaking your head. You didn’t even know why you still argued with that asshole. He’d never change. And you sure as hell couldn’t say shit like:

What d’you know? You’ve never seen a war zone from the inside, you fucking bigoted coward. 

“I’m not soft,” you insisted instead, narrowing your eyes to a glare.

“Prove it.”

“I wouldn’t hesitate to go back in time and fucking kill you!”

At this point, you wouldn’t. You really wouldn’t fucking mind at all.

However, Soldier Boy only laughed in your face like you were the bug about to hit his shield. “Oh, you can certainly try, sweetheart. But you can’t, can ya? ‘Cause you’re fucking broken. Like I said, useless,” he reiterated harshly, his sneer widening when his hand reached out and clasped your chin between his fingers. “Don’t worry. I’ll find some good use for you. Especially for that mouth.”

Furiously, you thwarted his advances once more. “I said don’t fucking touch me!”

“Yo, Soldier Boy, c’mon! Leave her alone now,” MM warned, finally getting fed up too. He usually avoided the supe to the best of his abilities, only snapping every once in a while when the asshole took it too far.

This time, MM only got involved because Hughie kept sending him frantic looks of panic during your heated exchange, probably worried you’d antagonize the supe so much he’d detonate the whole building.

“Mind your own fucking business, punk,” Soldier Boy dismissed the intervention, his venomous eyes still fixed on you.

The anger was storming through your body and closing your throat with a tight chokehold. You could barely breathe as your chest heaved and your ears rang. It was always worse when you got angry. Unfortunately for you, Soldier Boy had a way of pushing your buttons and setting off your triggers.

Your superpowers had the ability to control and bend time – or at least they used to. You had mostly used it to stop the clock and get an extension on your homework deadlines. But technically, you could also travel through time.

Once you had found out how that worked, well, you quickly became addicted. You went to concerts of bands that didn’t tour anymore, you’d shamelessly make money on Wall Street and placed bets on football games, and sometimes, you even ate dessert twice.

It was all about the little things.

But that all stopped when you accidentally cast yourself into the Middle Ages and almost got burned at the stake for witchcraft. For some reason, your powers wouldn’t work until the last second – you figured extreme distress had been a factor.

When you closed your eyes at night, you could still feel the scorching heat underneath your bare soles and smell the smoke reaching your nose and lungs.

Afterward, you didn’t want to use your powers any longer – not that you could. PTSD was a real bitch sometimes.

You had lived quietly and alone in a cabin near Montréal for years. After your parents found out they couldn’t make money off of you, they kicked you to the curb. And when you knocked on Vought’s doors, asking for help, they told you not to use your abilities – before they tried to kill you. That was the moment you’d realized you might be more powerful than you’d initially surmised. Until then, you had only used your powers for your pleasure and the occasional personal gain.

So, maybe, Soldier Boy was right when he said you had never used your gift wisely.

After your flight from Vought, you lived under a fake name and took up online college classes in physics and history to understand your abilities better and avoid grave mistakes.

And boy, time travel was a fucking bitch.

Years of study could be summarized to this, however: If you even so much so as killed the wrong fly in 1783, the whole world could go extinct.

Or in Vought’s terms: If you accidentally fucked up history, it might fuck with their business and money.

That was the reason why they had been trying to get rid of you for the longest time – until Butcher showed up on your doorstep. You had no idea how the Brit could’ve found you or even known about your powers in the first place. After your escape, Vought had kept your existence quiet. They knew if the wrong people found you, it would end direly for them.

Wrong people like William Butcher.

At first, he wanted you to go back in time and, in his words, “kill the chubby, little cape cunt.” Needless to say, you had declined. Even if Homelander was the worst creature to ever walk this earth, excluding his sperm donor, you wouldn’t kill a baby. You wouldn’t kill anything or anyone, really.

If anything, you could be classified as a bit of hedonist – or “a fucking hippie,” as Soldier Boy once had put it. Which, granted, was probably a trait you both shared. Although, Soldier Boy took the whole fucking cake and ate it, too. At least all you ever did was steal a tiny slice every once in a while.

In the end, you had never asked for these powers. You were just trying to make the best out of a bad situation.

But when Butcher then asked you if you could at least “hop back” to retrieve the weapon that had neutralized Soldier Boy in 1984, you finally told him you were essentially useless.

A part of you wanted to help, though. While you had closed yourself off from the rest of the world, you had still followed the news. You knew it had gotten bad out there. You could see Homelander spinning out of control and threatening to burn the world. You knew soon enough your house would burn, too.

You knew the monster needed to be stopped.

So, you offered Billy Butcher the only thing you could – a glimpse into the past, so he could find the weapon in the present.

And you did. You saw how Soldier Boy’s own team had despised him so much they handed him off to the Russians during an ambush in Nicaragua – but they hadn’t killed him.

The diabolical smirk on Butcher’s face had scared you. You knew he’d realized in that moment that you could be valuable after all. So, naturally, he threatened to give up your location to Vought if you didn’t join his team.

And well, here you were.

You’d traveled to Russia, you’d freed Soldier Boy, and you’d defeated Homelander. But even after the job was done, you stuck around.

Hughie, Annie, MM, Frenchie, Kimiko, and even Butcher – they had all sort of become your friends. And they protected you, even though Vought had sworn they were done hunting you. No one trusted Stan Edgar, and you knew he would probably still rather have you buried six-feet-deep if he ever got the chance.

So it was nice to know the whole team stood behind you. Well, all but one.

Part of the deal with Edgar had been a request to keep Soldier Boy away from Vought’s business. The guy was smart enough to know he wanted nothing to do with the ticking time bomb, either.

“And what are we supposed to do with that wanker, huh?” Butcher had asked as all of you stood in a very breezy office at Vought Tower – which had still been under heavy construction after the fallout.

“Let him play hero, keep an eye on him, and I’m sure we’ll have no issues, Mr. Butcher.” Edgar had smiled cunningly, his eyes flickering to you. 

Afterward, you had decided to pack up like Maeve and finally live your life. You’d even applied as a physics professor at a small college. But then Soldier Boy made his own request: Either you’d stay, or he’d walk. And if he had walked, your deal with Edgar would’ve fallen through.

Soldier Boy was a bully. In fact, he could teach master classes in it. You didn’t think there was one good bone in his body. So far, you could count the times the guy had actually been nice to you on one hand – two fingers to be exact.

The first time had been the very first night you’d spent together in that rundown motel after he’d killed Crimson Countess. You took over the nightshift of babysitting while Hughie and Butcher took a snooze in the adjoining room. That night, Soldier Boy had shown you a glimpse of a human being.

“Well, currently, there are two working theories on time travel: The closed loop theory and the alternate timelines theory,” you’d explained after he had asked you how actual time travel worked. Most people gave up after a minute, but he had still been in it after five.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Well, lemme see…” Musingly, you had pursed your lips and thought for a moment. “Terminator came out in ‘83, right? You’ve seen it?”

His lips had slowly risen to a smile. “Yeah… Actually one of the last fucking movies I watched before the fucking Reds got me.”

“Right.” You’d nodded. “Still remember what happened?”

He’d scoffed and rolled his eyes a little. “I’m not that old…”

“Well, it’s been forty years since you’ve seen it…”

“Schwarzenegger comes from the future to kill that blonde chick,” he’d summarized with a cocky smirk that should’ve proven to you he wasn’t demented.

“Yeah, remember the soldier who came back to save her, too?”

“Oh. Yeah, that guy…” His nose had scrunched slightly. Of course he’d be rooting for the killing machine. “What about that fucking wimp?”

“The Terminator was supposed to kill Sarah because her yet-unborn son would defeat the robots in the future, but the soldier who came back to save her is actually the baby’s father.” There had been no way you could’ve explained it any simpler than that. “So, the Terminator actually created the circumstance, which made him go back in the first place. That’s a closed loop. Does that make sense?”

He’d nodded slowly, his brow creasing heavily in concentration. “Yeah, I think it fucking does…”

For hours, he’d asked you questions about your powers, and when he was through all of that, he even asked you about your life, what you did for work, and how you ended up here. And you’d figured he was trying to schmooze up to you to use you for his gain – or maybe he’d just been coming down from all the drugs he’d taken that day.

Either way, after what you’d seen the Russians do to him, you could understand why someone like him might want to turn back time and get a redo. The unpleasant images, the inhumane torture he’d endured, actually caused you to have sympathy for the supe.

For a second.

When you’d tried bringing it up and be his friend, he had quickly shot you down. He’d been an even bigger dick since then, as if the sheer thought of someone seeing his weaknesses scared him.

Yes, a little, gray mouse like you apparently fucking terrified the biggest and strongest elephant in this world.

Honestly, you didn’t know why the supe had insisted on your presence. Maybe he just needed the perfect victim to antagonize as he passed the time. Sometimes, you did feel like the new Black Noir of Payback.

There’d only been one other incident where he’d shown something remotely resembling kindness:

He’d complimented you.

A real, sweet compliment – and he’d actually meant it – and he hadn’t hit on you in the same breath.

One night, a few weeks ago, Annie and Frenchie had dragged everyone of you to a karaoke bar to “decompress.” Even Soldier Boy tagged along and seemed in somewhat good spirits all night – there’d been no heinous taunting, only the usual flirtatious teasing.

One of those flirtatious attempts had been a dare for you to sing.

“Oh, c’mon! One song,” he’d begged and shifted closer to you on the small leather sofa in the corner of the bar. “How about something from the fucking 80s? Like Cyndi Lauper! I’m sure you’d like that, huh?”

“What, you want me to sing ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’? Really? You?” You’d arched a brow at him.

He’d chuckled, and it’d been a sweet sound instead of a mocking one. “Hey, look, I’m all about the girls having some fucking fun,” he’d said coolly before a lick of his lips turned him a bit more serious, mysterious even. “How about something a little slower… Time After Time!” He’d grinned proudly and raised his expensive whiskey glass to your cheap beer. “That’s fucking perfect for you!”

And then you actually went on stage and sung. You weren’t a bad singer, either, but you were by far no Mariah. However, you could see Soldier Boy watching you intently the whole time with that strange look he sometimes carried whenever he was staring at you – something he did quite often.

In fact, he’d stared at you pretty intensely when he’d first walked out of his cryo-chamber, too. It gave you the creeps the same way that naked homeless man had once done in a subway after 1 AM. And then, he had fucking detonated, which had freaked you out so much you’d accidentally disappeared back to New York with a five minute time difference forward – the only time you’d actually managed to travel into the future.

But after your performance, Soldier Boy had passed you on your way down from the stage and intercepted you by placing a tentative hand on your arm.

“You have a really beautiful voice,” he’d said and even gifted you a small but genuine smile.

“Thank you.”

Sweetly, you’d even mirrored his smile after no other insults or advances followed. You’d been practically baffled. As you had glanced at him more carefully, though, you’d noticed something gleaming in his eyes, almost melancholic. You’d supposed after 104 years, he had probably been experiencing a ton of déjà vu.

“You okay there, gramps?” you’d checked with a bit of a teasing smile, and maybe that’d been your mistake.

“‘M fucking fine,” he’d huffed. He’d suddenly turned cold again, the hard lines on his freckled face crestfallen. He’d spun around, marched out of the bar, and ditched you there on the spot. 

So, that was what you had done for the past few months – babysit Soldier Boy and keep the bomb from exploding. Which brought you back to this exact moment:

“What the fuck is wrong with you, huh? Seriously!” you snapped, feeling the fury overtaking you. “What the fuck happened in your life to turn you into such a miserable, toxic, overbearing, narcissistic, insufferable piece of shit?!”

“Insufferable?” He scoffed as if your words didn’t affect him, but you could see it was starting to get to him. “You’re the one who’s fucking insufferable, doll. Probably because you haven’t been fucked in a while by a real man.”

Exasperatedly, you gripped your temples. “Oh, it all trickles down to that, doesn’t it?” you deadpanned. “You sound like a fucking broken record, gramps!”

“Oh, you wanna fucking jump on me badly right now, don’t you?” he gritted through his pearly-white teeth, a challenging smirk playing on his plush lips as he leaned closer, his face only inches away from yours now.

“Please, it’s not gonna fucking make me like you more. Your dick’s not a magic eraser,” you bit sharply, your voice low and poisonous. “God knows you fucked your last girlfriend for years, and she still fucking hated you.”

Growling, he bristled, his jaw ticking. Mentioning Crimson Countess always hit a nerve. You knew as much.

“You’re just a drug-addicted loser with daddy issues. Nothing more, nothing less,” you nonetheless continued bitterly. “No one likes you! And believe me, asshole, I fucking hate you!”

As you looked up at him, you could tell he was close to exploding. Kimiko even desperately tugged on your arm to drag you out of the blast zone – not that it would’ve mattered.

“Butcher…”

Hughie’s panicked voice and wide eyes reached the Brit, who finally got out of his chair and slammed the paper on the desk.

“Oy, you two! Fucking stop it!”

And somehow, that had miraculously seemed to work. Soldier Boy managed to snap out of his temper tantrum, his breathing steadying, his smirk reappearing.

His lips twitched as he dipped his head and whispered into your ear, “You’re not fucking worth it.”

His thick fingers trailed up your hips before he grabbed your waist and pushed you closer to his body. You tried to shove him away, but this time he used his full strength on you to keep you caged.

“Get off of me!”

“Butcher!”

“Oy! What did I fucking tell you lot?!”

Kimiko tried to pull you away harder, but that only made Soldier Boy chuckle more.

“I said stop it! Get the fuck off of me!” you yelled louder, and he finally let go with a cunning laugh.

“Alright, you’ve had your bloody fun, mate. Why don’t you take a bit of a time-out now, huh?” It was the most Butcher could do as far as an intervention went. Everyone in the room knew Soldier Boy couldn’t be stopped.

“Fine,” the supe relented with a roll of his green eyes, but then his gaze landed back on you.

You hated to admit that he had gotten to you, but it was hard to deny when your whole body was trembling and tears stung your eyes.

“Fucking Christ on a cross, are you actually gonna fucking cry now?” Soldier Boy snorted condescendingly.

“Fuck you. Leave me alone,” you snapped with what little strength you had left and wiped the burning tears out of your eyes.

“Exactly why I said you’re fucking useless. This is the problem with women. Can’t even take a goddamn joke,” he ranted. The more he got to you, the more pleasure he took out of it. You could see it by the vicious twinkle in his eyes. “You keep talking how everyone hates me, but what about you, huh? You’ve got fucking no one, too. Your own fucking parents didn’t want you, and I don’t see an army of men lining up to take care of you, either.”

“Shut up!”

“Wanna know why? ‘Cause you’re a broken, useless, stupid, weak–“

“Stop it!”

But he didn’t. You couldn’t even hear the words properly anymore as they strung together into one explosion of abuse. Your vision blurred, and the ringing in your ears only got stronger.

“C’mon, fucking show me what you can do! Prove to me you’re not fucking useless! Do it!”

“I said fucking stop it!” you screamed loudly till he fell silent.

And then, poof. You were gone.

Soldier Boy blinked at the suddenly empty space before him. Knitting his brow, he shrugged your disappearance off only a second later and plopped down on the couch with an exhaustive groan.

“Fucking finally… Took her long enough,” he commented dryly and stretched out on the small two-seater, sighing blissfully.

“This isn’t fucking funny,” Hughie threw in, the anxious expression on his face only causing Soldier Boy to roll his eyes once more.

“Relax, squirt, she’ll be back,” the supe quipped, snickering. “Probably.”

“Y/N’s got PTSD, okay? She can’t control it,” Hughie argued, placing his hands on his hips in upset, his gaze scolding. “You know, you’d think you of all people would be a little more sympathetic to that.”

Soldier Boy’s eyes glowered darkly. “What the fuck are you talking about? I don’t have that shit. I told you.”

“You know, kid’s right,” Butcher chimed in, catching the ancient supe’s attention. “I’d be a little more worried if I were you.”

“Why? Not my fucking problem. And like I said, she’ll be fine,” he reiterated with a careless grumble.

“I’m sure you’re right, mate,” Butcher replied with a conniving smirk and a casualness that made the supe wary. “Let’s just hope our little Y/N doesn’t take your advice to heart about the proper use of her abilities. But if I were bloody you, I’d hope old-me watches me back.”

Soldier Boy snorted a laugh of amusement. “Oh, I’d like to see her try,” he replied arrogantly and stretched his spine with a yawn. “Well, anyways, I’m taking my fucking nap now. Just wake me when she gets back. I’m not fucking finished with her yet…”

Hughie and the others hurried around Butcher’s desk, their voices only whispers as not to disturb the grumpy supe, and the Brit knew by the worried looks on his team’s faces that he’d have to deal with this bloody problem now.

“Butcher, what are we gonna do?” Hughie asked, eyes still wide and kind heart surely beating a marathon on his sleeve.

“Yeah, how are we gonna get her back?” Annie agreed, calmer than her boyfriend, questioningly folding her arms and arching a brow.

“Mon dieu, what if she changes the timeline, Butcher? I don’t want to wake up speaking German,” Frenchie threw in.

“And I don’t want fucking slavery back,” MM added.

“Oy, calm down,” Butcher spoke with placating hands. “Y/N’s a smart girl. She knows more about this shite than anyone of you. I’m sure she’ll fucking figure it out.”

“What if she doesn’t, Butcher?” Annie pressed.

“Well, then, let’s hope worst she does is kill the snoring cunt over there.” Butcher smirked devilishly and gestured to Soldier Boy fast asleep on the couch as if he were hoping for that outcome. “God knows I’d be bloody fine with it.”

It took less than a second, a blink of an eye, but you felt it immediately, knew instantly what had happened as gravity itself stretched out its tentacles and wound them around your limbs, tearing and tugging until you ripped at the seams and atoms spilled out of you.

There was a stark drop in temperature – that was the first thing you’d noticed. Goosebumps formed within a beat on the bare skin of your arms, the biting cold making you not only shiver but fear for your life.

Please don’t be the Pleistocene... Death by saber-tooth? No, thank you.

But to your relief, you heard a strange, but familiar set of sounds around you – animated chatter, chiming bells and closing doors, and the occasional low rumble of a car. Your heart was pounding a furious and relentless rhythm in your ribcage as your eyes fluttered open and warily scanned your strange surroundings.

You’d landed on a street, your feet safely planted on a sidewalk. Glistening white snow covered the pavement in a thick veil, the sky a dull gray blanket above. Icicles hung from lampposts with patriotic banners flying in the chill, proclaiming messages to buy war bonds and save scrap metal.

Huh…

Powdered flakes swirled around you as a streetcar clattered past you on a cobbled street, the sound muffled by the snow. Storefronts and shops lined both sides of the road, shoppers bustling by you in coats, hats, and scarves. Your brow furrowed softly at the row of parked, snow-covered cars that looked a tad… old.

Oh no…

You had definitely traveled back a smidge, but luckily not as far as the Middle Ages again. Judging by the moderately busy street, you assumed you were at least still in New York City. A paperboy was shouting loudly further down, but you couldn’t understand him from the distance. The only word that was plastered everywhere was war.

World War I or World War II, maybe?

Wherever – or whenever – you were, you couldn’t get stuck here. Your short-lived fascination with your new environment was then quickly replaced by a rising panic in your throat.

You had to get home somehow.

Squeezing your eyes shut as tightly as you could, you tried to wish yourself back – unfortunately, you didn’t possess your pair of ruby slippers anymore that you could simply click. The more you tried and failed, the more anxious you became, and you knew a full-on panic attack was just waiting for you around the corner.

“Whoa! Hey, careful…”

With your hands on your knees, you bumped backwards into a man, your lungs constricting so much they barely let any air pass. You spun around, eyes wide and body trembling as a set of hands landed gently on your shoulders and waist for support.

“Miss? Are you alright?”

What little breath you had got caught in your throat as you stared into an all-too familiar set of outlandishly green eyes.

Soldier Boy.

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

It was a reflex at this point to slap his hands away and keep them as far from your body as possible. Of course the guy couldn’t leave you alone in any era.

Admittedly, he was hardly recognizable, though. While he was just as tall as his 21st century counterpart, he wasn’t as broad. Instead of the signature green outfit, he wore a long, black wool coat over a three-piece suit and a checkered flat cap. His hair was maybe an inch shorter, his beard replaced by a clean-shaven face. And while Soldier Boy surely didn’t look a 104, he didn’t look as young as the guy in front of you either. No furious lines from decades of anger management issues decorated his freckle-dusted face yet.

Maybe your reaction was ill-advised, considering the power he wielded. You figured any past version of the supe was even more ruthless than the current one you’d gotten to know. Moreover, you didn’t have the advantage of being spared because you had saved him from an ice box.

To your surprise, however, there was no detection of malice or offense on his features. To the contrary, he seemed strangely taken aback by your aggressive response, his hands swiftly shooting back as if your very skin was made out of scorching coals. They raised in surrender.

Surrender. 

Well, that was new. He had never, ever, ever done that before. Did you land in some alternate timeline where Soldier Boy was a nice guy?

“I-I’m so sorry, miss. Please forgive me… I was just checking if you were okay,” he stammered and forced a reassuring smile, his hands still held high in good faith.

“Just stay away from me. Leave me alone, okay?”

You backed farther away from him, your eyes desperately flickering around for an exit. Your voice jittered in sync with your body before you bolted down the street and sought shelter in a dark and quiet alley.

“Miss! Wait!” he called after you, his hands picking something up in the snow that you’d dropped during your flight. “You’ve lost your–”

His brow furrowed as he twisted the thin, rectangular device in his hand, his thumb wiping bits of melting snowflakes off the sleek, black glass. As he glanced more closely at it, it lit up brightly and vibrated in his hold. He startled at the unexpected tremble, almost dropping it into a pool of mud by his shoes. Fuddled, his gaze lifted down the busy street in search of you.

“What the hell…”

▶️ Chapter 2: Is This the 40s?

I think his curiosity is piqued lol... What did you think of his 1942 version vs. the, uhm, less nice future dickbag? 👀

Coming Up:

Ready to fend him off, you were surprised to find his grip wasn’t strong by any means. It was barely a brush before he dropped his hand again and looked at you remorsefully.

“I’m sorry! I just-… Please let me help you,” he reiterated with imploring green eyes. “Look, you clearly seem lost. Just tell me where you live, and I can get you home safely, okay? C’mon, you can’t do this to me.” He tried to loosen you up with a charming smile and a puppy dog look. “If you leave like this, I’m going to be up all night, worrying you’ve died of hypothermia out here.”

And my God, he seemed sincere! No wonder he had gotten attention from women like a goddamn bunny in a petting zoo.

Musingly, you then chewed on your lower lip and assessed the man in front of you. The people who strolled by you threw you the occasional weird looks – you’d chosen a bad day to wear a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and ripped jeans.

Admittedly, you could use a little help here. Maybe if you were being careful with the timeline – and him – you could risk it.

🚀 Read up to 4 chapters ahead on Patreon now

Tag List Pt 1.:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444

@syrma-sensei @perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming

@hunter-or-the-hunted @k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways

@muhahaha303 @ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith

@nesnejwritings @samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02

@impala67rollingthroughtown @star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13

One-Shots & Drabbles:

A Study in Emerald (1942)

Headcanons, Imagines & Other:

💌 15 Questions about creating TAT

💌 Headcanon: Would Ben sacrifice himself for you in a worst case scenario?

Moodboard (1942)

Flashback, warm nights...

Part 1 - The Loss Of My Life

Part 2 - The Fiancé Problem

Ao3: Parts 1-20 - Completed series here!